


Murder, He Wrote

by psychobetts, shrugheadjonesthethird



Series: A Serial Connection [1]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Online Dating, Angst with a Happy Ending, Betty and Jughead meet online, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Forensic Pathologist Betty Cooper, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Introspection, Jug is forever awkward and adorable, Jughead is very shy and very awkward, Mild Smut, Minor Archie Andrews/Jughead Jones, Minor Archie Andrews/Veronica Lodge, Minor Character Death, Online Dating, Online Relationship, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Phone Sex, Reconciliation, Shameless Smut, Slow Burn, Wakes & Funerals, Writer Jughead Jones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-08-24 13:00:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 65,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16640600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychobetts/pseuds/psychobetts, https://archiveofourown.org/users/shrugheadjonesthethird/pseuds/shrugheadjonesthethird
Summary: He wants inspiration. She wants a friend with a pulse. When the internet brings them together, neither is prepared for the immediate and undeniable connection. Knee deep in organs and discarded pages, can a self-reliant forensic pathologist and a shy writer sort out the mess of their pasts in order to secure their future?Based on a tumblr writing prompt: two people use a dating service where matching is based on their search history.**4th BFFA Multi-Chapter Overall:Complete Winner!**





	1. Connection

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Hi! Hola! Bonjour! Welcome to this brainchild that we have created!
> 
> I was sitting on this prompt for a long time before I finally reached out to Alix for her help. We have created something I'm extremely proud of and I hope you guys enjoy it! - Cyd
> 
> Cyd shared this prompt with me while I was trying to come up with my next idea, and I'm so glad she did! Not only do we have (we think) a cool story for you all out of it, I discovered a great new friend. THANK YOU CYD, and the rest of you ENJOY. - Alix
> 
> We want to thank our amazing betas, Lyss (breathewords/bettscoopr) and Heather (whaticameherefor). Without you guys, this would still be a hot mess of ideas and incomplete thoughts. Thank you!
> 
> And a huge thank you to Cass (nationalrebellion/sweetpea-cc) for sending the prompt to begin with. This is for you, nugget. <3
> 
> Also, Happy Thanksgiving to those celebrating tomorrow; may you travel safely and feel all of the love around you.

Jughead Jones was sick of being alone. He used to revel in the solitude of his apartment, taking all the time he could possibly want to work on his next novel, that is if the words ever wanted to leave his brain and actually make it onto the computer screen.

 

He had hit a roadblock, a dead end, and there was nothing left. He lacked inspiration. He lacked anything remotely resembling creativity. He needed a change of scenery, but moving to a new location required things he was not willing to do. He had just found a new pizza place that made the crust exactly how he liked it with the perfect meat to cheese ratio on top. He couldn’t just give that up.

 

It had been a while since Jughead had reached out to his best friend, Archie, but the last time he tried, his phone rang twice before an automated voice told him Archie’s voicemail box was full. Why would he keep trying if his efforts were fruitless? Jughead was sure Archie was too busy, still revelling in all his newlywed glory. He’d probably hear from him when he did something stupid and Veronica kicked him out for the night to cool off or sober up.

 

He wasn’t desperate, but without Archie, he was lonely. And with his best friend now married, well, he figured it might be time for him to at least start dating. He had seen an ad somewhere while doing research for his last novel about a new website--a dating service that looked at your search history and matched you to someone with similar interests.

 

That could be... dangerous. It’s a good thing he looked at porn--well, the weird stuff--in an incognito tab most of the time. But, what could it hurt, right? He plugged in the website address and read through the testimonies and sample matchups.

 

Jughead smirked to himself as he read. Most of the testimonies were full of sappy bullshit about falling in love, and one satisfied user even claimed to have found their ‘soulmate’ through the site. Jughead laughed out loud at that one. He just wasn’t _that_ serious about online dating, of all things. He needed someone new to talk to, maybe someone who could give him new ideas or rethink ones that weren’t working as he intended them to. All he wanted was a friend. It was that simple.

 

Jughead had never been good at writing about himself or choosing usernames, or really anything that wasn’t pen-to-paper fiction, which was far less depressing. He let the program run through his search history (but not before making sure there wasn’t anything  _too_ weird in there) and was met shortly thereafter with a match.

 

“PonytailPhD,” Jughead chuckled to himself. “That’s way more creative than WritersBlock.”

 

The site gave an analysis of why the individuals were matched as they were. They visited similar websites, seemed interested in the same line of work. He wondered if she was a writer, too. Or maybe she was a college student. Maybe she wasn’t a she at all. Ponytails aren’t mutually exclusive to women, especially not these days.

 

The only thing left to do was to send PonytailPhD a message, so he clicked the blue button at the top of the screen and hoped for the best. As he watched the cursor blink, trying to think of how to start this new friendship, a noise filtered from his speaker. His new friend had beaten him to the punch.

 

\--

 

Betty Cooper sat alone in the lunchroom, as was the norm, absently picking at her Caprese salad when she finally gave in and created an account.

 

The advertisements had been haunting her for a while now. Somehow, her smartphone knew how hopelessly alone she was, and the ads had kept popping up on every social media she had, every web page she landed on. Perhaps it was her destiny to sign up if the dating service was advertised on a virtual blood spatter analysis site, of all things.

 

Her problem wasn’t that she couldn’t make friends--it was that she rarely had the time or energy for them. There was Moose, the gentle giant, an exuberant and friendly guy she’d met one day in the shoe aisle of Bloomingdales, but they’d stopping hanging out around the fifteenth time she ditched him in favour of Netflix and wine. There were her colleagues, Kevin, Cheryl, and Reginald, but she made it a point to keep her work and personal life separate.

 

Her parents, Hal and Alice Cooper, also used to be around until she’d decided once and for all, a few years ago, to cut their toxic presence from her life. Then there was her sister, Polly, who had moved to Waco, Texas with her weird fiance as soon as she found out she was expecting twins. Betty had tried to stay in touch at first, but there was only so many unanswered voicemails and emails a girl could handle.

 

Ultimately, Betty always had a lot on her plate. Some of her own personal interests, but more often than not, work-related tasks. Whenever she thought of dating in the past, she always ended up coming to the conclusion that it was selfish to involve another person in her chaotic and sometimes dreary life.

 

But the final nail in the proverbial coffin had been when she caught herself speaking to a body on her stainless steel examination table like he was a long-time friend.

 

“Don’t give me that look, Harold. You don’t get to judge me.” She poked the cadaver’s face with a gloved finger and grimaced.

 

_Jesus Christ, I need a companion with a pulse._

 

She scrolled through her few matches while munching on a leaf of spinach. There was an _InsectGuy_ , _RaisedfromtheDead_ , _WritersBlock_ , and a _DexterM_. She didn’t like bugs, the undead was an overdone trope, and Dexter was not a mastermind worth being named after. WritersBlock was fairly nondescript, and by default, her best choice.

 

She opened the messaging app and her fingers danced over her phone’s keyboard. She figured showcasing her gallows humour first was the best way to weed out the weak or alert her to the real psychos.

 

 **PonytailPhD** : So, are you actually a writer, or is that just an excuse to have a serial killer’s search history?

 **WritersBlock** : If I have a serial killer’s search history, what does that say about you? We have a lot of overlap.

 **PonytailPhD** : Oh, clever. I’m a forensic pathologist, actually. But maybe I dabble in murder on the side...

Jughead laughed, a full, honest-to-god belly laugh. It had been a while since anyone had been able to get him to laugh like that. Whoever this person was, they were smart, clearly. Their quick wit matched his, and that was rare to find. _Maybe_ , he thought, _this won’t be too bad after all_.

 **WritersBlock** : To answer your earlier question, yes, I really am a writer. It’s research for my latest crime novel. Unfortunately, I’ve hit a bit of a wall, so to speak. So, you might say I dabble in murder, too.

 **PonytailPhD** : Look at us, a regular Bonnie and Clyde.

 **PonytailPhD** : Have you written anything I’ve heard of?

 **WritersBlock** : That depends. Do you make it a habit to read subpar crime novels in all of the free time I assume a forensic pathologist doesn’t have?

 **PonytailPhD** : Not usually. They tend to be wildly inaccurate. Except for this one I fished out of a thrift store bin. The author has a bizarre name, but he knows how to do his research.

 **WritersBlock** : Gotta love a good thrift store find. I haven’t had one of those since I was a kid and found a Beatles record marked wrong.

 **WritersBlock** : What was his name, or what was the book called?

 **PonytailPhD** : One sec.

 **PonytailPhD** : Tunny Wilkins. _At the Heart of It._  

 **WritersBlock** : Hmm. Sounds vaguely familiar, I’ll have to check it out. Maybe I can learn something from this Wilkins guy.

 

Jughead was surprised to learn his new virtual pen pal had read his book. Of course, he doesn’t publish under the name Jughead Jones. Instead, he published his novels under a pseudonym; he was sure no one would read a book by a guy who chose to call himself Jughead.

 

He figured it best to keep his identity under wraps, at least until he figured out who this person was. It was a point of pride for him to have his books be accurate. He’d learned growing up that taking the time for valid research was worth the aggravation to produce something worth reading.

 

 **WritersBlock:** So, you’re a forensic pathologist. What's the craziest thing you’ve seen? Just out of curiosity, you don’t have to tell me if there is some kind of doctor-patient confidentiality thing.

 **PonytailPhD** : Well, the patients are dead, so…

 

 _Jesus, Jug. Get your head out of your ass_ , he berated himself. He took out his phone and downloaded the corresponding app to the website. Maybe it would be worth having on the go, too.

 

 **PonytailPhD** : There was this one time I was standing next to my exam table talking to a colleague when a cadaver literally grabbed my hand. I swear my heart quit beating.

 **WritersBlock:** I’m sorry, what?!

 **PonytailPhD** : It was instantaneous rigor mortis. Chemical changes in the muscles will cause a body to stiffen gradually, but in certain cases, when the cause of death is particularly violent, it can happen spontaneously in large movements or twitches. Hence, the handholding. It also took some force to make the body let go.

 **WritersBlock** : That... Wow. If I’m being honest, I probably would have run screaming.

 **PonytailPhD** : You get used to creepy stuff like that down in the autopsy suite.

 **WritersBlock** : I don’t think I could handle that. I can write about it, read about it, but living it is something altogether different. I have a lot of respect for people who can be around death all the time and not let it affect other parts of their lives. So, hats off, Ponytail.

 

 _Why are you like this?_ he thought to himself, not for the first time since he’d started this conversation. _Ponytail, really?_ He shook his head when he saw the three dots that meant he was getting a response pop up on the screen. He hoped he didn’t embarrass himself too badly.

 

 **PonytailPhD** : Stop, I’m blushing.

 **PonytailPhD** : Also, you can call me Betty.

 **WritersBlock** : I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic about blushing or not, but I’ll take it.

 **WritersBlock** : I go by Jughead.

 

Jughead resisted the urge to research forensic pathologists named Betty in New York City. That would be creepy and stalkerish. But, if she was telling the truth, he had made her blush already. He wasn’t joking when he said he had respect for people in her profession. They were more than he could ever claim to be. He wrote a big game, but if faced with anything out of his stories in real life, he’d probably vomit.

 

 **PonytailPhD** : Gasp. You let your friends call you that?!

 **WritersBlock** : I _require_ my friends to call me that. Anything else, they’d get a swift kick in the ass.

 **WritersBlock** : Who am I kidding? I’d brood about it, but not actually do anything.

 **PonytailPhD** : Jughead it is, then.

 **WritersBlock** : At your service, Betty.

 **WritersBlock** : Which sounds really creepy, but I can’t take it back, so there it is.

 

_Smooth, Jughead. Really smooth._

 

 **PonytailPhD** : I’ll pretend you never said it. So...where are you from, Jughead?

 **WritersBlock** : Originally, I’m from Riverdale, a tiny little town outside of the city most people that haven’t heard of, but I moved for college and never looked back. What about you? Have you always lived here?

 **PonytailPhD** : The suburbs of Scarsdale, actually. It’s worlds different from Manhattan.

 **WritersBlock** : Well, that isn’t too far. How long have you been here?

 **PonytailPhD** : On and off ever since I was 18. I was in Baltimore for a while, then Providence, and back here. I moved out for school originally. You?

 **WritersBlock** : Let’s see, I’ve been here since I was 17, so more than ten years. Time really does fly, I guess.

 **WritersBlock** : So, if I'm doing my math correctly, which I'm probably not, you've got a doctorate which makes you… 29, 30?

 **WritersBlock** : I guess that's my polite way to making sure you're actually of age. It’s rude to ask, but I'm not in the business of talking with minors online.

 

Let it be known here and now that Jughead Jones is not a _total_ creep. He has boundaries.

 

 **PonytailPhD** : Don’t worry, I’m definitely not a minor. I’m 27. I fast-tracked my program.

 **PonytailPhD** : You seem a tad paranoid. Have you been catfished before, or is this just as new to you as it is to me?

 **WritersBlock** : It’s completely new to me. I’ve been stuck trying to write for weeks now. My usual inspirations seem to have dried up. I was hoping doing something a little out of the norm for me would help it along.

 **PonytailPhD** : Oh. I’m “out of the norm”?

 **WritersBlock** : Well, you’re not Archie or Veronica, not that you know who they are, but yeah.

 **WritersBlock** : That shouldn’t be taken as an insult. I’m sure you’re perfectly lovely.

 **WritersBlock** : And yes, I am usually this awkward.

 

Jughead cringed. How was he making this much of an ass out of himself already? He was sure he’d scare her off with his usual self-deprecation and peculiar tendencies.

 

 **PonytailPhD** : It’s okay. I suppose we’re all a little awkward. Why else are we on this silly site?

 **WritersBlock** : You’ve got me there, Betty. You win this round.

 **PonytailPhD** : So, just here for a muse then? Nothing else?

 **WritersBlock** : If I make a friend out of the deal, would that be so bad?

 **PonytailPhD** : Haha. Jug, I think that’s the point. It is technically a _dating_ site.

 

Betty was smiling softly at her phone when someone cleared their throat loudly. Her colleague, Cheryl Blossom, stood in the doorway of the lunchroom with her arms crossed and her cherry-red lips pursed.

 

“I haven’t seen a grown woman grin at her phone like that since I sexted my girlfriend from across the room at a family reunion.” The redhead smirked and snapped her gum.

 

Betty resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Cheryl could never mind her own business. Any drama in New York City’s Office of the Chief Medical Examiner came straight from the horse’s mouth.

 

 _Or should I say, the bitch’s?_ she thought to herself, trying to keep her face neutral as she tilted it upwards.

 

“Don’t you have… skeletons to reconstruct?” Betty tried to keep a polite tone. Cheryl was the resident anthropologist, and though ninety percent of the time she was stirring shit, Betty always tried to be professional. Also, there were the rare times Betty actually _liked_ Cheryl. _Very rare times._

 

“Yes, I do, Elizabeth. Thanks for reminding me. And this is _me_ reminding _you_ that there are only ten minutes left on your lunch break.” She snapped her gum again to punctuate her point and walked out, the clack of her heels echoing down the hall.

 

“Thanks plenty, Cher,” Betty muttered. She knew how little time she had left, but that didn’t stop her from wanting her new conversation to continue. She wasn’t sure what it was about Jughead, maybe his snarkiness, his awkward honesty, or his weird-ass name, but she was intrigued.

 

She turned her focus back to her phone where a new message was waiting.

 

 **WritersBlock** : So. Betty. What made you want to cut up dead bodies for a living?

 **PonytailPhD** : I love the mechanisms of the human body, I suppose. How we live, how we die.

 **WritersBlock** : Wouldn't being a medical doctor do the same for that? Not saying that there is anything wrong with your line of work. At all.

 

_Jesus, I'm just gonna stop talking now, Jughead thought._

 

 **PonytailPhD:** You’re very inquisitive about my job…

 **WritersBlock** : Well, I can honestly say I’ve never met a forensic pathologist before, so color me intrigued.

 **PonytailPhD:** Fair. I started with a residency to be a pediatric cardiologist, but when it came down to it, it wasn’t for me. Being around sick kids broke my heart.

 **WritersBlock** : I could only imagine.

 **PonytailPhD** : Also, there is one big difference between a medical doctor and a pathologist… the patients. Mine don’t complain, don’t talk, don’t need me to have a bedside manner, and don’t page me during dinner. Plus, they’re already dead so the pressure’s off. It suits me far better.

 **PonytailPhD** : Ultimately, I like the challenge. Being a medical examiner, it’s like investigating and deducing what brought someone to their demise. It’s fascinating.

 **WritersBlock** : Remind me to never piss you off. I feel like you’d know how to murder me and cover it up. *note to self, get and _stay_ on Betty’s good side*. Hah.

 **PonytailPhD:** Haha. Yes, keep that idea in mind. I know my way around a scalpel.

 **WritersBlock** : Noted. Hobbies? Do you have those?

 **PonytailPhD** : I do. But unfortunately my lunch break is over, and I have to return to my buddy Harold who may or may not have died from… well, I’ll spare you the gory details. Talk later?

 **WritersBlock** : Yeah, I’d like that.

 **PonytailPhD** : Me too.

_PonytailPhD has signed off._

 

Jughead sat back on the couch, his hands gliding through his hair and tugging at the ends. _What am I even doing?_ he thought. He wasn’t sure who this guy was--the one trying new things, talking to a strange woman he didn’t _actually_ know, and wanting to talk to her _again_.

 

He wasn’t sure how she could stomach lunch with the prospect of a dead body to hack up. If it meant he might lose his appetite, Jughead was surely against it. There was little he held in higher regard than his love of food. Still, he wanted to know more about Betty and what made her tick.

 

He sat with his fingers hovering over the keyboard, willing them to do anything but search for her picture. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t intrigued. When he thought of someone named Betty, he pictured someone older. Prim, proper, maybe even stuffy. She certainly didn’t seem stuffy to him, and she certainly wasn’t old at the age of 27.

 

Instead of googling her, he managed a few new pages of a chapter he’d been attempting to write for weeks. His fingers flew across the keys, and before he knew it, there were cohesive thoughts staring back at him. Things that made sense. Things he actually liked. He was astonished.

 

How did talking with this person, this _Betty_ , for half an hour inspire so much in him? Maybe he was right. Maybe all he had to do was slip out of his comfort zone a little bit. She was his ‘out of the norm’ as she so lovingly put it, but she wasn’t wrong. He didn’t want to let the opportunity go. He _couldn’t let it go_. Not if he was going to make his deadline for the publisher.

 

He didn’t want to admit it, but he couldn’t wait for her to get off work so they could talk again. He made sure he turned his volume up on his computer to ensure he wouldn’t miss her if he was in the kitchen.

 

Around six o’clock, his laptop sounded, beckoning him back to his couch.

 

 **PonytailPhD** : So, hobbies… I enjoy cooking, reading, horror movies, and running. And I love dogs. Like… more than life.

 **WritersBlock** : You lost me at running, but found me again at dogs.

 **WritersBlock** : Okay, maybe not so much cooking as eating, but I know my way around a kitchen pretty decently.

 **PonytailPhD** : What’s the last thing you cooked?

 **WritersBlock** : Let’s see. Today is Thursday, so I made myself dinner two weeks ago and I haven’t cooked for anyone else since I was a kid, so… it’s been a while. And it was pasta, but I didn’t have any sauce, so it was really just noodles.

 **WritersBlock** : Maybe I need to take back that comment about knowing my way around a kitchen… Or I just need to actually pick up groceries.

 **PonytailPhD** : You sound like you need a woman’s touch in your life. Or maybe you need to move back in with your mom.

 **WritersBlock** : Move back in implies that I ever lived with her to begin with.

 

Betty stared at the message and groaned out loud. She was just trying to be flirty, funny, but that line had seriously backfired. She hadn’t meant to pry into his personal traumas. Luckily, he didn’t seem _too_ upset. Rather, he was being transparently honest with her, a stranger.

 

Betty worried her bottom lip with her teeth as she struggled with how to respond. It was her instinct to comfort, advise, but somehow she sensed Jughead didn’t need that here. A simple apology would do, she hoped.

 

 **PonytailPhD** : Sorry, Jughead.

 **WritersBlock** : It’s alright. You didn’t know. She left with my kid sister when I was ten.

 **WritersBlock** : But you might be onto something about that woman’s touch thing.

 

Betty smiled, releasing her lip from her teeth. Maybe that line _hadn’t_ backfired.

 

 **PonytailPhD** : Okay, so now that you’re being truthful about your hobbies, what else do you like to do other than eat everything and anything?

 **WritersBlock** : I feel like no matter what I say right now, it can be perceived as super creepy, so can I pass on this question?

 **PonytailPhD** : Uh, no. Absolutely not.

 **WritersBlock** : Oh wow, we’ve shed the pleasantries already, huh?

 **PonytailPhD** : Out with it.

 **WritersBlock** : Well, fine. If you _must_ know, which obviously you do, I tend to sink into the background and people watch.

 **WritersBlock** : I’m sure you think that’s creepy, but I enjoy watching people, observing what they do when no one thinks they’re being watched. That’s when you see their true character.

 **WritersBlock** : It’s either that or shut myself in my apartment and marathon Tarantino movies, again.

 

Betty rolled her eyes. She found no issue with his “hobby”. She, more than he knew, was an expert at people-watching, people-following. At least he probably did it to gain inspiration for his writing, so he shouldn’t be ashamed. A flood of sympathy washed through Betty, and she tapped out her response without really thinking.

 

 **PonytailPhD** : You know, you can share who you are without being ashamed or worrying about what I’m going to think. I’m just a stranger on the internet.

 **WritersBlock** : Wouldn’t that be more of a reason _not_ to tell you the truth?

 **PonytailPhD** : Need I remind you that I spend most of my time with dead bodies? I would be the definition of creepy, except that word isn’t in my vocabulary, because it’s just _normal_ in my books _._

 **PonytailPhD** : You do you, Jughead. I learned that lesson a long time ago.

 **WritersBlock** : Now you sound just like Veronica. : _dramatic eye roll_ : I _am_ “doing me,” whatever that means. I just happen to prefer general solitude to most human beings.

 

That was the second time he had mentioned a Veronica. _He wouldn’t have signed up for this site, if he had a girlfriend, right?_ But then again, Betty thought, men do worse things.

 

Maybe she could slyly ask...

 

 **PonytailPhD** : You keep mentioning this Veronica _._

 **WritersBlock** : Yes, and?

 **PonytailPhD** : She’s… a friend?

 **WritersBlock** : A very good friend…

 **WritersBlock** : My best friend’s wife, in fact.

 

_Thank god._

 

 **PonytailPhD** : Oh, cool. I think we’d get along. She seems wise.

 **WritersBlock** : Are you only saying that because I said you sound just like her?

 **WritersBlock** : I’m onto you, Ponytail :)

 **PonytailPhD** : No! She just seems to know what she’s talking about, that’s all.

 **PonytailPhD** : Tell me about your best friend.

 **WritersBlock** : Nice save.

 

Betty narrowed her eyes, smiling at her computer screen. “Shut up,” she whispered.

 

 **WritersBlock** : What do you want to know? I’ve known him essentially my entire life. Our parents were friends. His dad helped raise me after my mom left and my dad tapped out.

 **PonytailPhD** : So, he’s like your brother. That’s sweet.

 **WritersBlock** : I mean, I guess. He’s a royal pain in my ass, but I guess that’s what siblings are for, right? Not like I’d remember what having a real sibling is like.

 **WritersBlock** : Sorry. Sometimes, the filter that is _supposed_ to be between my fingers and my brain isn’t properly in place. Like right now. Right now is one of those times.

 

A loud laugh burst from her mouth unexpectedly. He was so obviously nervous, his fingers rambled like he probably would if they spoke in person. It was insanely funny and endearing, and Betty found herself hoping someday she could hear it in person. Betty giggled as she typed out her next message.

 

 **PonytailPhD** : Oh my god. Thank you. I haven’t laughed like that in a long time.

 **WritersBlock** : You’re welcome? Happy to be of service. I’m not entirely sure what the proper response is to that.

 **WritersBlock** : Books! Books are something I can talk about without making an ass of myself. You said you liked reading--what’s your favorite?

 **PonytailPhD** : That is impossible to answer. How am I supposed to pick?

 **PonytailPhD** : Maybe Sherlock Holmes? I loved Nancy Drew when I was younger. But I also love reading biographies.

 **PonytailPhD** : Stephen King is always a solid read. As you can probably tell, I like a mystery.

 **WritersBlock** : Is there any part of your life that isn’t steeped in death?

 

Betty frowned and swallowed thickly. This was one of the problems she’d feared, connecting with someone online. There were parts of Betty’s life she didn’t want to--and couldn’t--share with anyone. She wanted to have a normal relationship, but it seemed impossible. Was there anyone out there who could know and love her fully?

 

 _If only you knew, Jughead. If only you knew,_ she thought grimly.

 

She shook her head roughly, trying to expel the negative thinking. It was time to open herself up to the possibility of _someone_. Even if it was a huge risk. Even if it ended badly.

 

 **PonytailPhD** : Yes, of course. This isn’t. ;)

 

Jughead spent most of that night talking to Betty. He toggled between his Word document and their chat, a smile on his face. The creative juices were flowing; he had written more since joining the stupid website than he had in weeks.

 

He wasn't saying it was because of Betty, but it very well may have been. She was open to talking about her job, which came in handy. She was a wealth of knowledge about all things forensics and had a good head for mystery.

 

They had been talking for a few weeks when Jughead realized he may have started to have feelings for his faceless internet muse. They took him by surprise. He couldn't remember the last time he felt anything for anyone, at least not in a _how much longer do I have to wait for you to come online so we can talk because I miss you_ kind of way.

 

He had tried dating after college, but he never found anyone who embraced his quirks. No one had understood his life choices and his lack of relationship with his family. Most women had marked these things as _red flags_.

 

They had opened up to each other. Jughead told Betty about his mom leaving and his father's stint in jail. He was embarrassed at first, but she insisted he was nothing like his father.

 

A month into them talking, Jughead was set to immerse himself into a life of no distractions. He did this every so often, disconnected his internet, cable and anything else that proved a hindrance to his productivity. But now he had something new thrown into the mix--he had Betty. How did he expect himself to get anything done without her constant chatter and sound boarding?

 

He knew she was at work when he sent her the message, but he sent it anyway. He needed to give her the option and in his own way, it was him putting the ball in her court to maybe further their time talking to something more than black text on a white screen.

 

 **WritersBlock** : Hey, so I know you're at work, but I needed to let you know something. Every so often I isolate myself to get work done. That time is here, but I don't want to stop talking to you when I cut my internet.

 **WritersBlock** : We've been talking a while now and I just wanted to leave my number here for you. If you decide you want to talk outside of this godforsaken website.

 **WritersBlock** : But let it be known, I hope you do.

_WritersBlock has logged off._

 

The ball was officially in her court when he called the cable company to cut his access to the outside world. He set his phone to _do not disturb_ after reminding Archie of his ritual and went on one last outing to the grocery store.

 

\--

 

Betty leaned against the brick exterior of a cozy, hipster cafe, licking at the whipped cream on top of her white chocolate mocha. She revelled in the sweetness and the contrast of the cool cream against the hot coffee. She hardly ever indulged in small pleasures like whipped cream--probably the conditioning of her mother to blame--but today she was in a good mood. She’d closed an especially difficult autopsy file, was content with how her friendship with Jughead was progressing, and was prepared to finish another project. _She loved being productive._

 

She watched the streets silently, waiting for the familiar face to make its inevitable appearance. She knew his routines by now, after doing her meticulous research and tailing him for about a week. She knew that a gang in this area supplied him with the straws and that he had to return every other day for a brand new stash. He sold off the product quickly--kids and teenagers were his prime customers.

 

Betty tried to focus on her delicious drink rather than get upset about the matter at hand. There was no point in letting her anger overwhelm her, not now. She had already decided her course of action, and like she always did, she would pull it off without hesitation or difficulty.

 

She was regretting finishing her drink so quickly as she recognized a man with dark stubble and deep-set eyes. It was him, _the_ _Sugarman_ , as she had nicknamed him. He was strolling to his typical pick up point where he would leave cash and wait for a man to walk by and slyly hand him another package. It was always the same, a perfect and nearly invisible transaction.

 

She watched as he slipped a fat manilla envelope into the regular mail slot, and then wandered away, pulling out a smoke. He was puffing away on it when a slim boy in a dirty denim jacket and ball cap passed by him. She noticed their exchange because she was waiting for it, but to any other passerby, it would look like nothing. He finished his cigarette and flicked the butt on the ground. Time to move.

 

Betty tossed her cup in a closeby trash can and started walking in the same direction as him, just on the other side of the street. Eventually, she waited for a break in traffic and crossed, walking casually and quickly with her hands in the pockets of her thick wool trench coat. She stayed at a far enough distance that she would never be in his line of focus, even if he did turn around. She had learned long ago that one had to stay outside of a person’s periphery in order to go undetected.

 

He ducked into the dark opening of Bowery Station and she followed, trying not to cringe at the dank and musty smell of the tunnel. She paused as he turned to the southbound entrance, feigning deliberation before blithely choosing the same.

 

He would wait for the train at the farthest end of the station--where there were few people, hardly any lights and large beams to hide behind--because he always did. Betty stopped a few feet away from him and an overflowing trash can, the closest she’d gotten yet, and tilted her head towards him.

 

“This train is always the latest in the city, I find,” she said, and his eyes flicked toward her. She smiled and fluttered her eyelashes.

 

“I wouldn’t know, I hardly use it,” he responded, lying.

 

She laughed lightly. “That’s lucky. I ride it twice a day, to and from work.”

 

He raised an eyebrow and looked her over. She shuddered inwardly at his obvious ogling. “You don’t look like you work around here.”

 

She giggled and shot him a sparkling grin. “Is that a good thing?” she purred, noticing out of the corner of her eye that the train was approaching through the tunnel.

 

He nodded slowly and shot her an appreciative look. She made a few steps toward the tracks, too many, and just like she guessed he would, he lunged forward to grab her back.

 

“Don’t get too close--” He started to say as he reached her, and then the train was right there. She sidestepped his advance and used his momentum to easily push him off the platform.

 

She didn’t hear him cry out, just the hollow thud of his body hitting the tracks and the whoosh of the train as it passed. She quickly and inconspicuously walked away, glancing up at the ceiling as she made her way toward the exit. As she already knew, that area of the subway was grossly unsurveilled--no cameras or eyes would see that “accident.” She felt satisfaction swell in her chest. Another day, another monster removed from the world.  

 

Her pocket vibrated as she clicked her way up the stairs. She pulled out her phone, and on the screen was a message from Jughead. She felt immediate butterflies in her stomach. His message said he was disconnecting from the outside world, but wanted to stay in contact with her. His number was displayed plainly for her to decide--would she pursue him further or retreat back into her safe and familiar solitude?

 

She smiled widely, her grin splitting her face. She eagerly tapped his number, and her SMS app popped up. The keys clicked in time with her rapid footsteps.

 

 **Betty** : Hi! It’s Betty. Just got off work. For my sake, I hope you don’t go completely off the grid.

 

.

.

.

 


	2. A New Narrative

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO!
> 
> Welcome back to Murder, He Wrote -- we're your hosts, Cyd & Alix and on tonight's episode...  
> Well, you'll just have to read and find out ;)
> 
> No but seriously, we are squealing with how much of a positive response we've gotten to this. Thank you to those who are taking this crazy train with us. We love you for it.
> 
> As always, special thanks for Lyss and Heather for being our amazing betas. Love you both!

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

Jughead was so engulfed in his newly-written pages, he didn't have time to think about the last message he sent to his pen pal. His fingers flew like lightning across his keyboard and his thoughts centered around the words on the page and nothing more.

 

After a few hours of listening to the static of the radio, he remembered how forward he had been with Betty. He had actually given her his phone number. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been so brazen; it was definitely a contrast to his usual awkwardness and overactive nerves. That wasn't to say that he'd never given his number out--he had. But never to someone he had _actual_ feelings for.

 

The other girls had been nothing special, barely worth remembering compared to Betty. But he had already cut his internet access and he couldn't take it back or backtrack his way out of his haste.

 

He wanted her to reach out, maybe he even needed it. For his inspiration, of course. He tried to swallow the lump in his throat and ignore the clench in his stomach he got when he thought about her.

 

He had left his phone on the kitchen counter, silent and set to _do not disturb_ for his own good. He couldn't be distracted; he had a deadline. But for the first time in as long as he had been going off-grid, he wanted the distraction, nearly ached for it.

 

He closed his laptop, telling himself he was only going to check to see if there was any sort of emergency. Maybe Archie or Veronica had called to tell him something that couldn't wait, he reasoned.

 

He grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and poured himself his eighth cup of coffee for the day. He stared at his phone and the small green flashing light taunted him. _It’s probably Archie_ , he told himself, steeling his nerves to check it.

 

He tapped his phone awake and stared at the text on the screen.

 

_1 new message from Private Number._

 

“There's no way.”

 

He tapped the message to see, right there in black and white, that Betty had actually texted him. He read the message more times than he was willing to admit, still in shock and amazed that she’d actually texted him back.

 

He tried to find a double meaning in her words and wondered what she could have possibly meant by ‘ _for her sake’_. Did she want to talk to him as badly as he wanted to talk to her?

 

He sincerely doubted it.

 

It was nearly midnight by the time he finally had the guts to respond.

 

Jughead: Hi. You actually reached out.

Jughead: It's Jughead, if that wasn't clear.

 

He reset the _do not disturb_ feature. _Do not disturb except for specific contact - Betty_. His phone buzzed almost instantaneously.

 

 **Betty** : Of course I did. You think I’ve been talking to you these past few weeks for no reason at all?

 **Jughead** : Temporary lapse of sanity? Could explain a lot.

 **Betty** : That is still yet to be seen, but right now, I’m content with my internet boyfriend. ;)

 

Jughead stared at his phone, his eyes wide with disbelief. He blinked a few times, sure that it was a figment of his imagination.

 

He tried to play it cool, but his mind was reeling. He tapped out a few different messages but nothing seemed good enough. No matter what he wrote, it sounded anxious and awkward.

 

 **Jughead** : Internet boyfriend, huh? Anyone I have to worry about?

 **Betty** : Just this clever and endearingly awkward writer I’ve been chatting with.

 **Jughead** : So, you make it a habit of finding awkward writers online and befriending them for your own amusement?

 

Betty giggled softly in the back of an Uber, heading back to her apartment after a rare evening drink with her colleagues. She felt giddy—like a thirteen-year-old girl talking to her first real crush—and it didn’t have anything to do with the vodka shots Cheryl had forced down her throat. Rather, it had everything to do with the self-deprecating and shyly flirtatious author currently texting her.

 

 **Betty** : Oh, well I would hope it’s for his amusement, too.

 **Jughead** : Okay, I need to clarify. We're talking about me, right?

 **Jughead** : Full disclosure, I'd be a little upset if you were talking to another awkward writer on the internet.

 **Jughead** : Not that I have a right to be. You can obviously do whatever you want.

 

She grinned like an idiot at her phone screen. At this point, her Uber driver probably thought she was a lunatic. She didn’t care; Jughead was becoming more candid with her the more they talked. Reading his implication that he wanted her all to himself made her stomach do backflips.

 

 **Betty** : Yes, I’m talking about you, Jug. I’m not talking to anybody else.

 

The wave of relief that ran through Jughead made him shiver. He knew he had no claim to her, but he was thankful it was just him, and that no other faceless internet guy vied for her attention.

 

 **Jughead** : Well, to say I'm relieved would be an understatement.

 **Jughead** : So, internet boyfriend? That's how you think of me?

 **Betty** : Would that freak you out?

 **Betty** : Sorry, I’m being presumptuous, but I really like talking to you.

 **Jughead** : Certainly not.

 **Jughead** : I very much like talking to you, too.

 **Betty** : Is it just because I share gory things you can use when you’re writing?

 

He laughed. He had a tendency to ask her about how certain things would look in an autopsy. He said it was for research, but honestly, he loved hearing —well, seeing—her talk so passionately about her work.

 

He loved her flair for the dramatic while she still made her point clear and concise. She knew her stuff, backward, forward, upside down and sideways. Her brilliance astounded him, but her patience was even more incredible. She let him ask as many questions as he wanted and never dissuaded him from learning.

 

She was always chipper compared to his eternal pessimism and it was something he didn't know he was missing from his daily life.

 

 **Jughead** : Definitely not.

 **Jughead** : Though, I do appreciate the insight from a professional. You know how seriously I take my research.

 **Jughead** : Also…

 **Betty** : …what?

 **Jughead** : Uh. Nevermind. It's nothing.

 

Betty felt positive he had been about to say something significant. Her heart beat furiously in her chest as she tore her eyes away from her phone to thank the driver and climb out of the car. Back on the street, she looked at her phone again and huffed in frustration. He hadn’t elaborated from his previous message, and she didn’t know what to say.

 

On one hand, she was really excited about the prospect of a relationship with Jughead. On the other, she was diving into something that she decided a long time ago wouldn’t be feasible for her. But, she had never felt like this. She had never connected with someone as much as she connected with him.

 

It would be wise to let this go, let _him_ go. But she stubbornly pushed the idea from her head as soon as it formed.

 

 _No. I want this._ She blew out a long breath as she responded.

 

 **Betty** : I just revealed that I think of you as my internet boyfriend, and earlier I explained, in graphic detail, how pulmonary edema presents at death. I think you owe me.

 **Jughead** : You have a point, I just… I don't know how to explain it or how to say it without being a total creep…

 **Betty** : You could not, even if you tried, say the creepiest thing I’ve heard today. So spill.

 

 _Jesus, Jug. Just fucking tell her._ _Don't blow it now_.

 

Maybe, if he ignored the first part, he could skate around not saying anything. Classic Jughead, trying to thwart anything good to ever come his way.

 

_Maybe if I distract her…_

 

 **Jughead** : Well, now I need to know what the creepiest thing you've heard today was.

 

An image of the drug dealer flashed behind Betty’s eyes and another surge of fear pulsed through her. She shook her head furiously and stomped up to the entrance of her building. _I can handle this_ , she thought. _I’m going to have a normal life._

 

 **Betty** : I don’t really want to talk about it, but let’s just say I deal with a multitude of unsavory people on a semi-regular basis. What can you expect? It’s New York.

 

She shrugged and smiled tightly to herself. She needed to lighten up.

 

 **Betty** : And stop trying to change the subject, sweetheart. You know how important honesty is in a relationship. ;)

 

 _Sweetheart? Relationship? Well, how about that?_ He thought. He smiled at his phone, like a lovestruck fool. He felt his cheeks warm.

 

He took a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves. She certainly wasn't shying away from him or their newly defined pen pal relationship.

 

 _Honesty is the best policy_ , he thought. _Or at least that's what they say..._

 

 **Jughead** : You certainly know how to make a guy blush, Betty. I was just thinking that I enjoy talking to you more than just about anyone else I've ever met and maybe more than I should.

 **Jughead** : I guess what I'm trying to say in my own awkward kind of way is that I think I might have some feelings.

 **Jughead** : And by might, I mean that I do, but I totally understand if that’s too much too soon or if you're not interested in that way or anything like that.

 **Jughead** : Also, sweetheart? Is that a thing we do now?

 **Betty** : I don't know, I was trying it on for size. How does it look, _sweetheart_?

 

Jughead decided at that moment that he couldn't wait to hear her voice. Hear her call him sweetheart. Hear her say his name. He was almost certain it would be the most beautiful sound he ever heard.

 

Just seeing her type it made him smile wider than he ever thought he could. He was already realizing that it was only for her. He wondered what else she was capable of.

 

He had spent more time than he cared to admit thinking about what she looked like. He was certain it wouldn't matter. When they met, she would be the same person that he had been talking to all this time.

 

He wondered what color her eyes were in the midday sunshine, if they sparkled like he imagined they did when she spoke so intimately about death.

 

He imagined her smile, full and real but a little crooked when he started rambling, the bubble of her laugh, the slight lilt in her voice when he was trying to be sweet, but ultimately failing as he always did.

 

She had said on more than one occasion that he had made her smile and blush, but maybe she was just being polite.

 

What he wouldn’t give to know that he made her smile, like he did when he thought about the possibility of her. Of them. Together.

 

 **Jughead** : It's the best thing I've seen in a long time.

 **Betty** : :)

 **Betty** : It’s not too much too soon.

 

Betty considered her last text to Jughead as she undressed and got ready for bed. It really wasn’t too much too soon--they were only texting right now and it was still fun and light. She knew, as the fluttery feeling in her stomach already told her, that before long texting wouldn’t be enough. She would want to see him, hear him, meet him. She  _already_ wanted to.

 

She eyed her phone resting on the bathroom vanity, the lens of the small camera glinting in the bright light. _Maybe,_ it dawned on her, _if I sent him a picture of myself, he’ll send one back._

 

She snatched her phone off the marble countertop and opened the camera app. Immediately, her pale face burst into view, illuminated by the lights that surrounded her mirror. She grimaced and padded into her bedroom for a softer, more dimly lit environment.

 

She ran her hand through her long blonde bangs, flipping them to the side so they had more volume. She smiled at herself experimentally in her vanity mirror. She looked okay, she supposed. It would do.

 

She turned toward the lit lamp on her side table so the golden light could filter across her face, then lifted her camera. She tried to relax the muscles in her face, smiling with her eyes, as well as her mouth. She snapped a few, then without thinking too hard, picked her favourite and hit send.

 

She sat down on her bed while she waited for his response, examining the photo she’d sent. All of a sudden, she noticed her outfit, how her satin cami had slipped so the tops of her breasts were slightly visible. She groaned out loud, letting her head fall into her palm with a muted slap.

 

_Nice work, you ho._

 

_—-_

 

Relief flowed through him again when he saw her response. He was happy to see they were on the same metaphorical page. He placed his phone back down, having enough distraction for a while, deciding to get back to work. He didn't want another passive-aggressive email from Ethel Muggs at his publisher's office.

 

He flipped his phone over, ready to hunker down for a few more hours until sleep finally decided to set in. He'd gotten through a few uninspired pages of narrative when his phone rattled on his desk again. He knew it would be Betty, probably reassuring him that she was interested. Somehow she always knew when he was in a spiral of self-doubt.

 

When he turned it over, he was not met with black text on a white screen, but a photo. A photo of the most beautiful creature he had ever seen, to be more specific.

 

Her blonde hair delicately balanced over her shoulders and her sparkling bright green eyes did in fact shimmer like he thought they would. And her smile. It was subtle, but it was for him and it was more than he could handle. Until his eyes drifted further down the picture to the baby pink silk shirt that adorned her shoulders.

 

His pulse quickened and his mouth went dry as he stared at the photo. _Did she take this right now, just for me? Was the seduction intentional? Is she trying to murder me already?_

 

It was all a little too much for him to take in for the first time. She was a goddess and him, a lowly peasant in comparison. There was no way she'd stay interested once she saw him. But maybe, if she had sent her photo, completely unprompted, she wanted one in return. He wasn't sure if he was ready.

 

But if she was anything like him, she had a deep-seated desire to see her  _internet boyfriend_.

 

He stood up slowly from his desk and went to check himself in the mirror for the first time in days. The bags under his eyes were prominent, purple in all of their sleepless glory. His inky black locks splayed in every direction from running his fingers through them.

 

His heart was pounding in his chest. The sight of her was more than he ever imagined, though if he was being honest, he wasn't sure what he had been expecting.

 

“Fuck it,” he said to his reflection before going back to his desk and grabbing his phone.

 

He never thought he photographed well, but he could do this for her. He pulled the camera up and angled it down slightly, trying to minimize the size of the bags under his eyes. His blue eyes shone brightly at the thought of new beginnings.

 

He took a few photos, settled on the least offensive one, and sent it back to her with a text.

 

 **Jughead** : I think I could spend my entire life searching for the proper word to describe how beautiful you are and never actually find one.

 

Betty was curled up in a fetal position in the middle of her bed, silently berating herself for being so careless when her phone buzzed again. Her heart skipped a literal beat at the noise, and she shot up into a sitting position, grabbing her phone from the foot of the bed. There was a photo on her screen, as well as the sweetest words anyone had ever said to her.

 

She studied the man who somehow, over the last few weeks, had become so fascinating and appealing to her that she was throwing away all reason. He had crystal clear blue eyes that she imagined pouring over her and hair of the darkest ebony she could already feel her fingers threading through. Her stomach clenched with desire as she turned her attention back to his words.

 

He was a writer, so it was his job to choose and piece together words into enticing sentences. He knew how to weave narratives and create visuals, so surely he was exaggerating about his reaction to her picture just to be nice. It was probably the way he’d described a girl in one of his stories.

 

But still, she imagined those words coming from his pale and pink upturned lips like they were meant for her and only her. Sitting there in her room alone, she could almost feel the ghost of his breath whispering them noiselessly in her ear.

 

She shook her head to escape her reveries and gasped a deep breath. _Damn, he could be smooth when he wanted to be._

 

 **Betty** : I believe I just had an aneurysm at your insanely kind words. Make sure your name is listed as my cause-of-death on the certificate.

 

Jughead stared at her response for longer than was customary. _He_ was the death of  _her_? That, he didn't see coming. His mouth was still uncharacteristically dry as he tried to fathom how this gorgeous, vibrant, insanely brilliant woman entered his life and promptly nuzzled her way into his thoughts, his head, and his heart.

 

He had never thought himself much of anything. Sure, he had been told he was a good looking guy, but hearing it from Archie and Veronica didn't really count. And sure, he had quasi-girlfriends in the past, but he had never felt the instant connection to anyone but her.

 

 **Jughead** : Wouldn't that be your job? Y'know, cause COD and autopsies and all that.

 **Jughead** : When will I learn that I'm not funny and to give up while I'm ahead?

 

He sat back at his desk and hunkered down. He carefully read through the pages he had written and hated every word.

 

 _A different direction_ , he decided.

 

He deleted nearly seven thousand words that simply didn't fit the new narrative he was trying to evoke. Luckily, he was still in the beginning stages of planning and outlining, so nothing was set in stone. He was thinking the new book would be a sequel, a continuation of his most recent work, but in reality, it was its own story with new characters begging to be written.

 

His lead would be a femme fatale of grand proportions on a mission for her own brand of justice. Since she was a child, she had made it her life's work to avenge her parents’ murder. She dedicated her life to tracking the culprits down and showing them just how much they'd taken from her at the young age of five.

 

 _Deirdre Byrne was_ _an unassuming slip of a woman. The hatred she held in her heart carried her through her daily life--a constant quest to seek justice and avenge her parents. Their brutal murder played on repeat across her eyelids when she closed her eyes each night._

 

_She knew it could have been her, too. Lucky for her, or maybe not so lucky for her, she'd been hiding under her bed trying to scare her father when he came to tuck her in. When he didn't come at his usual time, she crept down the hall, just in time to watch a man in a black hood slit her parents’ throats right there on the bedroom floor._

 

_She watched as blood oozed from their necks, mesmerized by the gleam in the moonlight, but with enough self-control to keep quiet, not to scream, and to hide as quickly and as quietly as she could._

 

Jughead smiled at the new words on the page, proud for the first time in a very long time of his work. There were questions he would have to research and investigate, but he had no doubt in his mind he could make Deirdre Byrne come to life without too much of a struggle.

 

Morning hit him like a ton of bricks. He woke up, his head on his desk, back screaming in agony from falling asleep hunched over his computer. There was a notepad next to his right hand covered in nearly illegible scribbles of notes, theories, and ideas that came to him while he was writing. He hadn't intended to fall asleep, but having written an  _entire_ chapter before doing so made him feel accomplished.

 

He wiped the sleep from his eyes, getting up and making a fresh pot of coffee. He stretched himself out, his bones cracking under protest. He went back to the desk and skimmed his notes.

 

**ASK BETTY**

 

That was the only note he could read without looking too hard or squinting like it was an abstract painting.

 

 **Jughead** : Morning, beautiful. Whenever you have a chance, I have a few questions I want to ask you if that’s okay.

 **Jughead** : I hope you slept well.

 

He reread his pages while waiting for his blonde beauty to respond. He was definitely correct in changing directions, the new narrative was worlds better than the original.

 

 **Betty** : I slept great, thank you :)

 **Betty** : Ask away. I’m at work already but I’ll try to answer when I can.

 

He spent a little more time than he was comfortable with trying to decipher the notes he’d taken the night before. _It shouldn’t be this hard to read my own handwriting,_ he thought. He finally found words of use scribbled in between nonsense and flowery doodles of Betty’s name.

 

Jughead wasn’t sure when he turned into a sap, but here he was, scribbling his internet girlfriend’s name across his notes, waiting for her to respond to his equally sappy good morning text.

 

 **Jughead** : How would someone go their entire life tracking down a murderer without being caught?

 **Jughead** : That’s not to say she’s invisible or anything like that. I spent the entire night rewriting everything I had worked on. It was a different narrative begging to be written.

 **Jughead** : I’m sure that doesn’t make sense to you, but that’s what happened. :shrug:

 **Jughead** : I guess my question would be how can someone go undetected for years while trying to thwart the cops, while still gathering information, her goal being to find her parents’ murderers?

 **Jughead** : What precautions would she need to take to make sure she doesn’t leave behind hair or prints or anything that could trace back to her? Well, other than the basics: gloves, hair tucked away, things like that.

 

He knew she was at work and she would reply when she could, but he found himself counting the minutes until she did. Was it weird that he missed her already?

 

Betty’s entire body froze as she read his questions. He mentioned that he was writing, and there was no reason to believe he knew more about her than she had told him. But still, the eerie similarity between his questions and her reality stunned her. Jughead didn’t know, but he had asked the exact questions that she, the expert in invisibility and subtlety, could answer.

 

She wanted to help him. She wanted to tell him, in detail, exactly how one would go undetected as they researched and tracked New York’s most despicable. She wanted to tell him that his character should have the most generic tread on her shoes, or that a braid was a perfect way to contain hair. She wanted to explain that the best place to track someone was out in public, where hundreds of people would leave trace evidence, making it impossible for the police to establish real suspicions. But it felt too close to the truth. A forensic pathologist studied the intricacies of the human body in life and death. There wasn’t a reasonable explanation why she could answer his questions  _that_ accurately.

 

But still, she would try to help. She would give him something.

 

 **Betty** : Those are tough questions. I’m not too knowledgeable on _how_ one would track a person of interest. A detective would probably be a better person to ask. But I do know that police tend to not look too carefully into deaths that aren’t suspicious. Deaths that appear to be an accident, or by natural causes are sent to us in the suite, but mostly we don’t even have to perform autopsies on them. So, if your character is looking to go undetected, I would say she should just try not to be too conspicuous, and when she finally decides how to get her revenge, she should try to make it look like an accident. That way, even if she did slip up when tracking, the police likely wouldn’t find any incriminating evidence because they don’t waste their time and resources on accidental deaths.

 **Betty** : Also, she shouldn’t try to make it look like a suicide. Family members tend to voice their opinions on those. If there is no evidence of prior suicidal ideations, the police would try to form what they call a “psychological autopsy.” They’re looking for reasons and motivations why a person would choose to end their life. If there are none, it looks extremely suspicious and they’ll look into the option of homicide. Just FYI.

 

Betty clicked her tongue as she re-read what she had sent him. The information she provided wasn’t anything strange or something that she wouldn’t know from her profession. Any of that information could have come from pathology experience or a simple internet search. She slipped her phone back into the pocket of her scrubs, satisfied.

 

\--

 

It had been a few weeks since their online relationship turned to texting. They spoke every day -- Jughead would send a sweet good night text and Betty would reply in the morning with something equally as sweet.

 

Jughead was sure that his _maybe_ crush on her was now full-fledged, honest to God feelings. He would hear his phone rattle and the butterflies would flap furiously in the pit of his stomach. He liked the cocoon he’d created for himself, but part of him was saying it wasn’t enough. He wanted to hear her voice, hear her laugh, hear the smile in her words he was nearly positive would be there.

 

He wanted to hear his name on her lips. But more than that, he wondered if her creamy white skin was as soft as he imagined it would be, if the press of her lips on his would be electric like he dreamed.

 

 _Start small_ , he thought to himself.

 

 **Jughead** : I hope work isn’t too much of a pain for you today. I know you’ve had a hard week.

 **Jughead** : I had an idea, but I’m not sure you’d go for it.

 **Jughead** : How would you feel about maybe if we spoke for real? Like with our voices.

 

_It’s called a phone call, Jughead, Jesus Christ!_

 

 **Jughead** : Maybe, we could have a phone conversation? I don’t know if that’s something you’d be interested in, but I might actually be dying to hear your voice.

 **Betty** : Yeah, it’s been kind of a crazy morning for me. That sounds perfect. Want to call me in 10? I’m almost on my lunch.

 

 _Ten minutes,_ Jughead thought. _I wasn’t thinking that soon, but who am I to say no?_

 

 **Jughead** : Sure thing.

 

Jughead watched the clock on the living room wall tick away until finally, ten minutes had passed. He didn’t want to seem too eager, but having the chance to hear her voice for the first time nearly sent a shiver down his spine. He couldn’t remember last time he wanted something so badly.

 

He picked up his phone, the screen nearly blinding him in the dark of his apartment. He took a deep breath in, then out, then in again as he scrolled his contacts and hovered over her name. He had attached the first picture she’d sent as the display picture. He smiled every time he’d seen it. It was something that they did usually once a week—exchange pictures. He’d be lying if he said it wasn’t the highlight of his day every time.

 

In a final exhale, he pressed her photo. _Dialing…_

 

Part of him was still certain he was being catfished, but there was no faking that voice. It was sweet, bubbly—sunshine personified. He could write volumes about it.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Hey. It’s um. It’s Jughead,” he said, nearly slapping himself in frustration. She knew that. She’s the one who had told him to call. His number was saved to her phone. She would have _seen_ that it was him calling. He shook his head at himself.

 

He could hear rustling on the other end of the phone. She did say she would be on lunch when he called.

 

“Jug, hey!” He felt his heart clench in his chest. He had officially found his new favorite sound.

 

“How’s work?” _How’s work? Really, that’s what you’re going with?_

 

“Better now.” He could hear the smile in her voice and imagined a gentle pink blush rising on her cheeks.

 

“You certainly know how to flatter a guy.” He would have been lying if he said he wasn’t actually blushing. He was. His cheeks were hot, all the way up to his ears.

 

“Just the truth.” There were a few moments of awkward silence. “So, why the sudden need for a phone call?” Her voice was curious, but there was something else there. Maybe she was excited, too.

 

“The truth?” _Of course, she wants the truth._

 

“No, lie to me.” Her voice was light and teasing as it cut through his thoughts.

 

“I just really wanted to know what your voice sounded like.”

 

He heard her giggle, then a muffled noise like her hand was over the speaker and a hushed, semi-angry _shut up, Cheryl!_ The scuffling sound stopped and her voice rang clear through the speaker again. “And?”

 

“And what?”

 

“Is it what you expected?”

 

Jughead wasn’t even sure what he expected. He could see her personality just fine through her words on a screen, but nothing prepared him for the angelic pitch of her voice and the small giggles he heard through his phone. He made her giggle. It was his confirmation of all the times she _said_ she had laughed, but this time he had concrete proof. He wanted to hit record and listen to it for hours on end. He was certain he’d never get tired of it.

 

“No.”

 

“Oh, sorry, maybe I should’ve used my professional voice.” She cleared her throat and her tone smoothed and deepened. “This is Dr. Elizabeth Cooper—” he heard the muffled noise again and a definitely angry _goddammit_.

 

“Dr. Cooper, huh?” He chuckled to himself. He could tell she was mad at herself for revealing her full name to him. He was sure of it.

 

“Uhm, yeah. Sorry, I didn’t know if we were doing that yet. I didn’t mean to,” she rambled, her voice higher than it was before. “You don’t have to say yours, I get it. No pressure at all. I know it kinda makes things more real—”

 

“Hey. Wow. Okay, I thought I rambled when I got nervous.” It was adorable, really. Her words flowed quickly, nearly jumbled together in her haste to apologize for something she needn't be sorry for. He was chuckling to himself.

 

“I mean, it’s been what? Two months?” He was trying to remember the exact amount of time they’d been talking.

 

“Seven weeks, five days…” her voice trailed off. Yup, she was definitely embarrassed.

 

“I was going to say, ‘but who’s counting,’ except obviously _someone_ is,” he teased.

 

“Okay,” she giggled again. “I’m just going to hang up now that I’ve thoroughly embarrassed myself.”

 

“Wait, no. It’s cute.” _What?_ “Not that you embarrassed yourself, because you totally didn’t, but it’s cute that you think you did.” He pulled at the end of his loose curl, the one that always fell into his eyes. A rogue thought of a haircut passed through his mind but was soon interrupted by her giggle again.

 

 _What was that, three or four times now?_ He was feeling accomplished. He didn’t know he could make anyone laugh, let alone _giggle_.

 

Once he reassured her that she did not embarrass herself and that it would be nearly impossible for her to do so, especially with him, conversation flowed easily. He heard her stabbing something, he assumed some kind of salad based on the crunch he heard in his ear. They didn’t have too much longer to talk, since she only had a limited amount of time to eat her lunch before getting back to carving up dead bodies.

 

“Listen, Jug. I gotta run. A new autopsy just came in and it looks like it’s going to be a doozie. Can we maybe finish this later?” He could hear her packing something up, the same rustle he had heard at the beginning of their conversation a half hour earlier.

 

“Oh, yeah. Of course, I should probably get back to work, too. This book isn’t going to write itself,” he joked.

 

“I’ll call you later? Maybe tonight?” Her voice seemed hopeful, her breath nearly inaudible on the other end of the receiver.

 

“Yeah. I’d like that. I’ll talk to you tonight.” Jughead couldn’t contain his smile.

 

“Alright then. Until later, Jughead.” He could hear her fumbling with the phone.

 

“Wait, Betty?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“It’s Jones,” he laughed, mostly to himself, but he felt as though he needed to even the playing field.

 

“Well, okay. Until later, Jughead Jones.” She hung up the phone before he could say goodbye again, but that didn’t stop the curl of his lips up, as they had been nearly the whole conversation.

 

—-

 

“Jughead Jones,” Betty said to herself, clutching her phone to her chest.

 

She liked the sound of it.

.

.

.


	3. Uncaged

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI. Welcome back to the third installment of our crazy story! We have been ecstatic about the comments and messages we've been receiving, and we just want to thank all of you for reading and sharing with us just how much you love this Betty and Jug. We love them too. 
> 
> A special thanks to Lyss and Heather, who go out of their way to make this story better. We love discussing and flailing with you. 
> 
> ENJOY.
> 
>  
> 
> **please note the additional tags, and upgraded rating**

* * *

* * *

 

Betty couldn’t believe the horrible things that happened in New York City. It seemed that around every dark corner, down every grimy alley, behind every closed curtain, there was something shady going on or someone who deserved punishment. Thinking about it overwhelmed her so much that sometimes, she just wanted to scream.

 

Her job helped, but also it didn’t. Occasionally, a case would come across her exam table that would challenge her professional resolve and break her heart. The worst had been a young girl who died from being forcibly immersed in scalding water by her father. Betty had performed that autopsy while tears dripped relentlessly down her face.

 

It was the grisly and unfair deaths like those that drove her to hunt killers, rapists, and dealers—the people who deserved to be cut open on her exam table. The more detestable the person Betty took out, the less pain she’d face in the autopsy suite, the less loss the innocent people of New York would have to suffer.

 

The best part was when she got to see her victim’s faces there, too. It was incredibly cathartic to officially rule those deaths what _she_ made them look like--natural, accidents, sometimes, rarely, even suicides--and not what they really were. And she never felt bad about it, either. She was using her knowledge of death to exact righteous justice, the next act of which would be on a man named Chic Smith, a pimp and strip club owner in the ghetto of Hell’s Kitchen.

 

She had caught wind of him while tracking the gang members who supplied drugs to her last victim. She had learned that Chic made his livelihood renting young and impoverished girls out to men who could pay for them, or at the very least, forcing them to dance on stage.

 

She had been tracking him for weeks, planning the most opportune moment for her to take his life. She wished she could torture this one; Betty _hated_ the sexual crimes. They made her toes curl, her fists clench, and her ears ring. But she knew it was ultimately unwise, that her anger was unhelpful. All it ever did was wreck her focus.

 

Betty was entirely level-headed that night as she walked into Chic’s strip club, despite the fact that she was heading into the belly of the beast. She had dressed in the grungiest and simultaneously sexiest outfit she could dig out of her closet—fishnet stockings paired with a black denim mini skirt, baby pink combat boots, and an old, cropped cheerleading shirt from high school that read _SIREN_ in large black letters. It didn’t even come close to the wardrobe of the girls who worked in Chic’s place, but it would have to do. She had also pulled her golden tresses up into an unusually high and messy ponytail, smeared on a layer of rosy lipstick, and glued on heavy lash extensions for a final touch, just enough to distort her everyday appearance. She called this look “Barbie on bath salts.”

 

She was sitting on a sticky pleather bar stool when she first caught sight of Chic. He was standing by the stage with his lanky arm around a petite girl with dark, coiled hair and umber skin. She wore a skimpy cheetah print teddy and strappy black stilettos. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen years old.

 

Bile rose in Betty’s throat as the girl scowled and said something to him, to which his pale and angular face twisted in response. He lifted his arm off the girl’s shoulder and grabbed her waist harshly, shaking her. He pointed to the stage, then shoved the girl towards the steps.

 

She seemed to shrink into herself as she tramped up the stairs. Several men in the bar hooted and hollered as the girl positioned herself center stage, directly in front of a microphone. A low, seductive beat started over the loudspeaker.

 

Betty watched in mute disgust as the girl swayed from side to side, singing filthy words while removing pieces of her clothing. The fear had disappeared from her eyes, replaced by a sort of empty, pained determination. Betty had to look away as the young girl undressed. She could easily search through the human body’s grossest cavities, could often stare into the eyes of horrible men while she killed them, but she could not stomach this. She wanted to snatch the girl off the stage, wrap her in a blanket, and drop her at the closest troubled youth center.

 

But she was in the middle of something else, something that would hopefully also help the girl.

 

She slid off the bar stool and made her way towards Chic. She decided, as she watched him appreciate the show, that she wouldn’t allow him to live through to the end of it.

 

She had an easy plan. She knew Chic had a heroin problem and she was incidentally familiar with the gang that supplied it to him. She had made her own concoction of various substances; countless toxicology reports she’d read in her life had taught her exactly how to mix a lethal shot. All she had to do now was give it to him.

 

“Chic, baby,” she called out as she neared him. Her voice was sickly sweet, different from her usual voice, much more different than her professional voice. He tore his eyes away from the girl on stage to look at the one who was demanding his attention. He smiled darkly as Betty approached, revealing a set of yellow, rotting teeth.

 

“Hello, gorgeous.” He licked his lips and looked Betty up and down. “And you are?”

 

“Sent by Tall Boy,” Betty crooned, fluttering her eyelashes at him. “I have your package.”

 

Chic put his hands on her hips and squeezed lightly. “I’ve never been so glad to hear those words, probably because they’ve never come from your pretty lips,” he rasped, his face too close for comfort.

 

She felt and smelled his pungent breath on her face. She forced her lips to turn upwards in a smile. “Would you like to go sample in the private room?”

 

“Sample you, or the stuff?” Chic laughed, and she got another whiff of his breath. She fought the urge to reach up and plug her nose. Instead, she rested her hand on his chest lightly and giggled.

 

“The stuff, of course. But maybe I’ll indulge you, too.” She lied, winking at him while quickly swallowing the bile that had again risen in her throat.

 

He growled and nodded, grabbing her hand and pulling her toward the edge of the room where she assumed the private rooms were located. She spared a glance for the girl who was still singing on the stage.

 

_This is for you, honey._

 

Chic pulled Betty into a dark room with a purple, velvet couch and a wall-sized mirror. He sat down and patted the spot beside him. Betty sat delicately, trying not to think about all of the things that had likely gone down in that exact spot, and instead focused on the task at hand. She pulled the package out of her bag and handed it to him. She watched as he unwrapped the rags she had wound around the syringes of poison.

 

“This isn’t nearly as much as he usually gives me,” Chic said, a slight tinge of annoyance coloring his tone.

 

“He thought you’d like to try the new stuff. He only gives it to his favourite customers,” Betty explained in a soft voice.

 

Immediately, Chic’s face smoothed and he gave her another leery grin. “Okay. Well, this better be worth it, or I’ll have to get my money’s worth another way,” he said as he reached over and stroked her thigh. She willed herself not to shudder.

 

At that moment, her phone buzzed in the pocket of her miniskirt. _Jughead_ , she thought, and her pulse immediately quickened. Her phone buzzed again. He was calling her.

 

“Do you have to get that?” Chic motioned towards the buzzing.

 

“No.” She smiled and shrugged as her phone buzzed again. “I’m here for your satisfaction. Go on, try the new one.” She pointed at the syringe she knew was the most potent and tried to ignore her phone and the desire to snatch it up and answer it.

 

He nodded eagerly and pulled up his sleeve. His veins stood out, and track marks littered his pale arms. He easily located the best spot for the needle, stabbed it in roughly, and pushed down the plunger. _Wow,_ she thought, _he’s not really about being sanitary._

 

Betty sat there waiting for the euphoria to set in. It didn’t take long; Chic laid back on the couch within ten seconds, and within thirty he was babbling.

 

“Ho-holy fu-uck-k,” he slurred. “That s-shit is s-stron-strong.”

 

She giggled but otherwise didn’t respond, just waited silently for his body functions to inevitably fail. As his eyes fluttered back into his head, she glanced around the room and breathed out a sigh of relief when she saw a back door. She wouldn’t have to risk leaving the room the same way they’d entered.

 

Chic had fallen quiet, and the only noise she heard was the slowing of his breathing and the muffled voice of the young girl from the other room, still singing. She smiled to herself. So, he _would_ meet his end before the show was over.

 

She got up off the dirty couch and leaned over Chic’s body. She placed her hand by his open mouth, trying to feel if he was still breathing. He wasn’t.

 

 _Good riddance_.

 

She hastened back to the door they’d entered and slid the deadbolt across with the hem of her shirt, locking them in. No one would find Chic for hours, and by then there would surely be no hope of saving him. She pulled out her phone as she exited the room through the back door and found herself in the alley behind the strip joint.

 

She shivered violently from the cold and the cesspit she had just emerged from as she read the words on her screen. _1 missed call - Jughead_. She tapped the green phone icon, calling him back. At that moment, he was just the person she needed to talk to.

 

He answered before the second ring.

 

—-

 

“Hi, honey.” Jughead plopped himself down on the couch and stretched his legs out to rest on the coffee table. It was late, and he knew there was a possibility she'd be sleeping, but he at least needed to say good night.

 

“Hey, Jug. Sorry I didn’t answer your first call. I’m uh-,” she paused and her breath hitched, “catching the subway. It was a late night at work.”

 

“No worries. I know it’s kinda late. I half figured you were asleep. I'm glad you're not though.” He blushed, embarrassed by the confession.

 

“Nope, not that lucky. I wish I was in my bed. It would be a lot safer than Penn Station at this time of night.”

 

 _I wish I was in your bed, too._ He shook the thought from his head quickly when he heard her footsteps quicken on tile floor. She must be at Penn now. He wondered how long she'd have to be on the subway before she was safely home.

 

“I'll stay on with you. If you want. If it'll help.” His voice was quiet, but sincere. He wanted her to be safe. Jughead knew there were a lot of sick people in the city, and he didn't know what he'd do if anything were to happen to her. Not that he would be able to do anything from his apartment across town.

 

Her voice was tight, her response quiet. “That’d be nice, Juggie. Thank you.”

 

His heart clenched in his chest. No one had ever called him that before.

 

“Tell me a story. It'll distract you until you're home.” If he was being honest, he could listen to her talk forever.

 

They'd been talking every day for weeks now. Each call was less awkward than the last. They'd learned more about each other, learned the subtle nuances of the other's voice. They even Skyped once, and it had almost been too much for him to handle.

 

She laughed once, short. “A happy one, or the usual?”

 

“How about a happy one this time?” The usual was a retelling of a past autopsy or case file. As much as he loved hearing her speak passionately about her job, he wanted to hear her happy. It seemed to be a rare occurrence for her, and that was unacceptable.

 

“Hmmm.” He heard the familiar click of her tongue, the one that meant she was thinking hard about something. “Once upon a time—”

 

“Really?” he asked, chuckling.

 

“Yes. Really. You wanted happy, so hush.” She started again. “Once upon a time, there was a beautiful, young songbird who was _finally_ free of her cage.”

 

Her voice was tinged with sadness, but he didn't say anything, just let her continue with her tale. He had requested it, after all.

 

“She had the entire world at her fingertips now. She could fly anywhere she wanted, sing anything she wanted, _for_ anyone she wanted. But when she tried to leave, when she tried to fly away, she found her wings clipped. She couldn’t go far, and there was a cat waiting close by to swat her, to snatch her. Until… someone chased it away. Took a broom and scared the cat from her path, took her gently in their palms, and lifted her to the sky. She still couldn’t fly. She chirped in defeat, but they lifted her higher and told her the thing she needed to hear the most. Try.”

 

“I thought I said a happy story, baby.”

 

She sighed. “It ended happy, it just took a while to get there.”

 

“I guess so. Maybe her story just isn't over yet?”

 

“I hope not,” she murmured. There was a moment of heavy silence and then she breathed a small laugh. The shimmering sound of it lightened the dead air. “You’re the one with the stories, Jug. Maybe you should tell me one.”

 

“You make a convincing argument,” he laughed. He racked his brain for something he could tell her. He was used to writing mysteries, things bordering on horrific, and she had seen enough of that to last a lifetime. “What kind of story do you want?”

 

“Dealer’s choice,” she said, her breathing slightly quickened from what he assumed was her picking up her pace to leave the subway station quickly at the late hour. He knew the train station held dark and unsavory people this time of night.

 

“Hmm.” He fidgeted on the couch, throwing his arm behind his head in an effort to find some semblance of comfort. “How about the story of a young man who made it out alive?”

 

“Is it going to be a happy story?”

 

“Well, he survived, didn’t he?”

 

“I don’t know, you tell me,” she teased.

 

“Spoiler alert, he does. And, dare I say, he’s actually _happy_ .” He places the emphasis on the last word on purpose. Jughead couldn’t remember the last time he was truly this happy. Maybe when he got into college, but that was a fleeting kind of happiness. This was the kind of happiness that stuck to his bones and burrowed so deep into his soul that it didn’t seem like it was going anywhere, at least not while he was with Betty. Well, quasi-with. How could you be _with_ someone if you’ve never actually touched them?

 

“Are you going to tell it or not, Juggie?” He heard the whir of wind in the receiver; she must be on the platform.

 

“Well, the story doesn’t start out so great. This young man, you see, he didn’t grow up on the nice side of town. He was looked down upon simply for his address, and then for who his father was, and probably still is.” He took a deep breath. “He was homeless for a few years, trying to escape from becoming the person everyone expected him to be. From his alcoholic, abusive father. From the family that left him. He lived in a closet at one point, and a projection booth of the local drive-in at another. But, eventually he made it out. He got a full scholarship to a college far, far away and he never looked back.”

 

She was quiet on the other end of the phone.

 

“Fast forward a few years, he publishes a book or two, under a name that isn’t actually his, and just when he thinks things are spiraling downward into hopelessness again, he meets this woman. She’s brilliant and funny and inspiring and, not to mention, breathtaking, but what I— I mean _he_ —can’t understand is why she’s interested in this young man who really doesn’t have too much to offer other than his humble words and awkward smile.”

 

He heard a sniffle on the other end of the phone. It was getting chilly, maybe it was the wind she was fighting against.

 

“I’m really sorry all that happened to you, Juggie. That’s not fair.” Her voice was small, strangled.

 

Jughead shrugged, despite her not being able to see him. “Nothing I can do about it now.” He ran his fingers through his hair, pulling at the ends. She was the first one he’d ever told about any part of his past. Even on that first day, he’d told her about his mother taking Jellybean and leaving. Now she knew the sordid details of his homelessness and less-than-stellar home life.

 

Jughead prided himself on being a private person. He was able to pick and choose the parts of himself that he was willing to share with the world. He wasn’t sure why, but he couldn’t hide from Betty. He wanted her to know everything, because maybe if she knew everything, she’d still choose him. She’d choose to stay.

 

He would choose her everyday, no matter what. He was already certain of it.

 

“Hey, um, can I ask you something?” Jughead was nervous, his hand at the back of his neck, rubbing relentlessly to try to ease the tension. His toes tapped against the floor as he sat forward.

 

“Sure.”

 

Jughead took a deep breath, then another. He was stalling and he knew it. He prompted it. Now he had to follow through. _Good going, idiot. Don’t back down now,_ he thought.

 

“I, um— ” a puff of nervous laughter left his throat, “— maybe, one day, if you were interested, I could take you to lunch. But only if you want to. I know you have a tight schedule, and I’m sure you don’t even want to, but I just really wanna see you, hold your hand. And, okay, I think I really need to stop talking now. Please jump in at anytime, that would be wonderful.” He was rambling, so nervous that his words slurred together as he talked in circles, waiting for her to say something.

 

He didn’t hear anything on the other line for longer than he thought was normal.

 

“I’m sorry. Forget I said anything. It was stupid—”

 

“Oh my god, Jug.” She giggled, and the familiar sound soothed him. “Relax. Of course I want to meet you, too. Obviously.” She laughed again. “And if you really want to hold hands, I’m sure we can arrange that.”

 

Gone was the earlier solemn tone, replaced with a subtle lilt in her voice. She was teasing him again. If he could, he’d kiss away the smirk he imagined was on her face. He shook his head, mostly at himself, but at her as well. He couldn’t remember a time in his life that he was actually this nervous and had trouble forming words. _It’s your damn job, moron! Get it together._

 

“Really?” He let out a sigh of relief, waiting for her to speak, to let him down easy.

 

“Sweetheart, do you not see how charming you are?”

 

Jughead shook his head, his jaw half dropped. Of all the words he would have used to describe himself, charming was certainly not one of them. Awkward, definitely. Smart, probably. Charming, not even remotely. He threw his head back briefly before righting himself again.

 

“Honestly? Not even a little. I meant what I said before. I’m not entirely sure how you’re even a fraction interested in me.”

 

“Because you’re kind and interesting, funny, smart, gorgeous—”

 

Jughead laughed unintentionally. It sounded to him like she was describing herself.

 

He wondered how she did it—see the good in people, the good in him. She was always so optimistic, but maybe that was only when it came to him. He wasn’t sure about the other parts of her life, but he would _almost_ put money on it that she was human sunshine to everyone she met.

 

“Did you just laugh?”

 

“I did.”

 

“I’m being serious, Jughead. I don’t know if it’s because you’re not used to hearing it, or because you’ve never believed it, or both, but please. Believe me.” Her voice was almost pleading, like she needed him to believe her or it would somehow affect her, too.

 

He took a deep, steadying breath. She was right. He didn’t hear it, and he certainly never believed it to begin with. But he believed her.

 

“Okay.”

 

\---

 

Betty smiled into her phone as she stepped off the train onto the platform. Even though she and Jughead had formed a comfortable and caring camaraderie over the course of three months, he had never lost that endearing humility. At first, she had suspected it was an act designed to attract women on the internet. After all, she assumed the typical writer was probably confident and pretentious, not awkward and nervous. But Betty had been around a lot of people with big egos, especially in her line of work, and Jughead wasn’t cocky. His humble attitude rang true. It wasn’t an act at all, and she found that talking to him on the phone and over Skype only solidified her confidence in his genuine modesty and kindness.

 

He was _still_ nervous talking to her, _still_ rambled, _still_ acted as though he’d never really taken a look in the mirror at himself. Despite the fact that she encouraged him every chance she got, complimented him whenever given the opportunity, he would always revert back to that guy that she had to message first in the beginning.

 

As she made her way back to her apartment, she realized she enjoyed being that person who built him up. Yes, she admired his meek disposition, but she wanted to be the person to help him make sure it didn’t slip too far into insecurity. She could see how easy that would be for him, considering everything he’d gone through in his life.

 

It made her heart hurt to think of it—a teenage Jughead hiding in the corners of a small town, slipping through the cracks, moving from place to place because his parents couldn’t or wouldn’t be there for him. She imagined the fear and the loneliness he must have felt, that he wasn’t worth protecting or caring about. It wasn’t unlike the people she sought justice for.

 

They were mid-conversation when she’d finally slipped under the covers of her inviting bed. They had talked about nothing and everything, yet it was the most important conversation either of them had had that day. She yawned as she settled into her downy pillows, reluctantly voicing her exhaustion.

 

“I’ve got an early morning tomorrow.”

 

“It is already past your bedtime,” he joked.

 

“Oh, far past. But I can’t help it, I’m being distracted.”

 

“Well, it better be something good to keep you from your sleep. I know how much you love it.” She could hear the smile in his voice, just before his muted yawn.

 

“It’s true. It is my greatest love,” she chuckled quietly, “Night, Juggie.”  

 

“Good night, baby.”

 

\--

It was only a few days later that Chic’s pale, stiff body showed up on Betty’s stainless steel examination table. She was not shocked; she’d had her victims show up in the lab before. Their appearances did not scare her, rather, it had the opposite effect — it made her heart rate quicken, her chest swell with satisfaction. As she did her preliminary external examination, noting the familiar track marks on his arms, the distinct structure of his face, the lack of dental hygiene, she didn’t feel one ounce of remorse. She felt remarkable.

 

It was that feeling, that sense of fulfillment when her expertise and intelligence combined, that equipped her to be the law’s hand when the system failed, that helped her to keep going. It was the power she felt when she stared down into the empty and unseeing eyes of scum, that knowledge that she was the one who stomped them out that fueled her fire. It was the idea that hopefully in their absence, those who they had harmed or oppressed would find closure. Maybe even a semblance of peace.

 

She leaned close to Chic’s face. She didn’t necessarily believe in a specific afterlife, but she hoped desperately that there would be no peace for him wherever he was now. She wished hell existed, if only so Chic Smith could burn there forever.

 

“Elizabeth, my girl, I heard we got an overdose here.” The resident toxicologist, Kevin Keller, entered the suite, fully scrubbed, interrupting Betty’s focus. “I see he’s been returned to his natural state. Done the external yet?”

 

Betty straightened herself and rolled her shoulders, adjusting her demeanor. She smiled kindly at her colleague and friend while quickly skimming through the checklist in her mind. It was instinct at this point in her career.

 

_Clothing, items, signs of trauma, distinguishing physical features such as tattoos, piercings, scars, birthmarks, freckles, amputations, circumcision—_

 

“Woah, isn’t that… fancy?” Kevin gestured to the southern region of the body. “And I thought I’d seen it all.”

 

Betty had documented the body’s unusual adornments during the external, but she hadn’t dwelled on them. Of course, the thick silver hoop would be the first thing Kevin noticed. She laughed at his intrigued grimace.

 

“None of your boyfriends have that?” She asked as she snapped her gloves back on. “You can remove it if you’d like.”

 

“Oh, god no.” Kevin pulled his hands back suddenly and shuddered. She laughed again. Of all people, she would have thought Kevin would be the most familiar with the strange genital piercing.

 

Betty went back to work, noting mentally the remainder of the body’s physical characteristics. She didn’t take notes; she didn’t need to, her mind a steel trap. As she prepared the body for the first cut, Kevin spoke up.

 

“So, speaking of boyfriends…” he said, a curious edge to his tone. “How’s yours?”

 

She didn’t look up from her scalpel at his question, though a mixture of thrill and uncertainty shot through her at the mention of Jughead. She kept her face still as she carved a long line from the center of the chest down, finishing her incision parallel with the hip bones. “He’s good,” she replied, not offering more.

 

Though she considered Kevin a friend—like she did most of her colleagues, with the exception of Cheryl when she was being a pain—she didn’t care to share details of her life. She didn’t want anyone to know her _too well_. Instead, she preferred to keep their ideas of Dr. Elizabeth Cooper a shell of who she really was. It was a precautionary measure, but also a defensive one.

 

She continued the cut from the midsection to both shoulder joints, creating a pristine ‘Y,’ ideal for peeling back the skin to view and remove the body’s essential organs.

 

“That’s all, just good?” Kevin scoffed. “Haven’t you been with him for like, a while?”

 

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes, but answered in a clipped tone. “I’m not with him, I’m just- we’re just-” she stammered, wanting to choose her next words carefully. “Talking. A lot. All the time.”

 

Kevin whistled lowly. “Damn, Liz. Sounds like you have a raging, pulsing-” Betty looked up from the open chest cavern she was measuring and shot him a look. “Crush,” he finished, shrugging.  

 

Betty let the word sink into her brain and rummage around as her gloved hands did the same inside the body’s chest. Kevin’s observation immediately brought her feelings—the ones she had since the beginning that increased with every phone call, every picture, every late night farewell and morning greeting—to the forefront of her mind. C _rush_ was an understatement; it didn’t accurately describe what she felt for Jughead. It was like calling a brain hemorrhage a headache.

 

A smile appeared on her face without permission. “I really like him. Like, too much.”

 

Kevin returned the smile as he handed her a saw. He waited patiently as she detached and removed the rib cage.

 

“What do you mean by ‘too much’?” he asked when the whir of the saw cut off.

 

She handed it back and he immediately placed a large container of formalin beside her on the workstation. As she removed the organs in their respective sections—thoracic, cervical, abdominal—weighed them, and placed them in the preservative, she again warred with herself before answering his inquiries. She couldn’t tell him the _truth_ —that she was losing all sensibility and letting someone in when her life was characterized by secrets, risk, and murder.

 

“I’m just not sure it’s the best time to be… developing feelings for someone,” she replied.

 

“When’s a better time?”

 

She sighed as she filled the now-empty chest and abdominal cavities with wool—the special type that delayed decomposition. “I don’t know, never? I’m just so involved here and I don’t have time for a relationship and-”

 

“Liz, if you have to work less so that you can have a semblance of a personal life or a sexy writer boyfriend, then that’s okay. You can’t just work your life away.”

 

He didn’t know the half of it, she thought. “Did you get your samples for the drug test?” She asked, trying to turn the conversation away from her love life.

 

Kevin frowned at her deflection. “Yes, but don’t change the subject. The office isn’t going to go up in flames because you decide to do four autopsies a day instead of seven, or because you decide a date is more important than paperwork. Do something for yourself for once.”

 

Betty focused on stitching up the perfect Y-incision she had made. In, then out. In. Out. But Kevin’s suggestion echoed in her ears, permeated her brain. _Do something for yourself._

 

Everything she did was for other people. She moved to New York City because her supervisor requested it. She cut open bodies because she was good at it. She hunted and killed monsters because she felt she had to--to equal out the scales of justice, to free those stuck in a vicious cycle of crime and pain and hurt.

 

_Who else would? Who else could?_

 

She finished closing up the body in silence, Kevin watching her. She reached up for the spray head above her workstation, pulling it down to rinse the blood and bodily fluids that had escaped.

 

How, in good conscious, could she put aside that for a _guy?_ Even if it was Jughead, a guy she liked a lot, a guy she thought she may be falling for. So, she’d forget about helping heal a sick society so that she could fall in love, get married, have the white picket fence and a million babies? That wasn’t _her._ That was what her mother would’ve expected of her, but Betty didn’t want to make any choice that Alice Cooper would agree with. She didn’t want to be self-involved, selfish, wrapped in her own luxurious world.

 

She wanted to do something important. Sure, pathology was important. Solving the problem of death a day too late to change anything was admirable. But ever since she’d seen with her own eyes the decrepit, rotting state of New York City, the deviants who roamed the alleyways, who took, mutilated, destroyed, and gave nothing back, she only had one thing on her mind—justice.

 

It _had_ been the only thing on her mind, until WritersBlock popped into her matches and made her laugh, ache, hope. He made her forget all sense. He’d turned everything upside down, and even though Betty knew her once arrow-straight priorities had shifted because of him, she couldn’t resent it. She was the happiest she’d ever been in her life. Jughead had lifted the fog, had banished the clouds of her loneliness. He’d done exactly what she needed, wanted, but never actually expected.

 

“Earth to Lizzy.” She heard Kevin’s voice invade in her thoughts. “You gonna put him back in the freezer?”

 

Betty shook her head and blinked rapidly. “Sorry, yeah,” she muttered.

 

“You okay?” Kevin asked, his brows pulled together slightly, his eyes soft and for once, unprying.

 

She nodded. “Just… yeah, I’m fine. Thanks for the advice, Kev.”

 

He smiled gently. “Anytime. If you ever need boy advice, I’m your man.”

 

Betty forced a laugh through her constricted throat. “I’ll remember that.”

 

Kevin beamed and lifted his box of samples. “I’m going to go run some tests so we can find out that heroin killed this heroin addict. Wish me luck.”

 

A real smile found its way to Betty’s lips. He wouldn’t need luck.

 

As she slid the body, _Chic’s_ body, back into his chilly, stainless steel home, she seriously considered her course of action. She wanted to give this thing with Jughead a chance, wanted to see if it was real. She wanted to finally meet him, see him with her own eyes, touch him with her hands.

 

But she had just started researching her new victim. He was a young, psychotic, volatile, shit-on-the-bottom-of-your-shoe man, who’d been accused of several assaults, sexual and violent in nature, at various college campuses around the city. From her findings, she learnt that he was a true predator, probably with sociopathic tendencies. He had a juvenile rap sheet containing everything from thievery to voyeurism, but he still hadn’t been put behind bars. The system still couldn’t pin him down, somehow. He’d gotten away with every charge that had ever been laid against him.

 

It was time for someone to take him out, and Betty wanted that person to be her. She wanted to see his last breath, watch the light disappear from his eyes, smile as his body slumped in lifelessness. She wanted it so badly she could visualize it, see it perfectly and clearly in her head. She was only a few more pieces of information away from pulling the trigger.

 

This would be her last one for awhile, she decided. For herself. For Jughead.

 

For a chance at real love.

.

.

.


	4. Not Sorry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to another installment of AwkwardWriter!Jug and BadAss!Betty. This chapter was fun because we got to explore some different... feelings. You'll see what we mean! Read on, buggies. 
> 
> As usual, huge thank you to Lyss (bettscoopr) and Heather (whaticameherefor) for being our beautiful, observant, perceptive, genius betas. We love you both as much as... Jughead loves coffee and Betty loves bodies. xx

* * *

* * *

 

 

Maybe he was the one counting now. It had been seventeen weeks—a little over four months—since their first of many awkward conversations. It was no one’s fault but his own that they were so awkward, but he couldn’t remember the last time he felt real feelings for someone, so he was trying to cut himself some slack.

 

He knew he loved Archie, and by proxy Veronica, but he’d never loved any of his ex-girlfriends, even if he’d told them so. He remembered loving his mother and little sister, but it had been so long ago that he wasn’t sure if that was true anymore. His father, well, he was certain that his father never wanted him to begin with, therefore he harbored no love for the man. From what he remembered of him, the only feelings he ever felt toward his senior was disdain and mild hatred that never really dissipated.

 

He was finishing up on the phone with Betty when there was a knock on the door.

 

“Alright, baby, I have to run. Archie is here. I’ll call you later.” He heard her mumble a goodbye on the other end of the line before he hit the red ‘end call’ button and opened the door for his redheaded best friend.

 

He closed the door behind him and ushered Archie into the living room. Since the last time Archie was in his apartment--before Jughead went off-grid the month before--he had done some rearranging. He had moved his desk from his bedroom to the living room, and he had hung his so-called _murder board_ from the wall just above it to help him track the story of Deirdre Byrne.

 

There was a rough sketch of what she looked like pinned to the middle with strings leading to various other items that wouldn’t make sense to anyone but him. Notes from Betty he’d jotted on scrap paper were tacked to their corresponding locations.

 

He had even printed one of the photos she’d sent to him and had it framed on his desk. He wasn’t ashamed of his girl. The woman who let him call her ‘baby’ whenever he wanted, even amidst his usual awkward ranting. The woman who was brilliant and made him feel like he was worth something, even at his lowest, even through his rambling and missed phone calls and oversleeping.

 

He wasn’t ashamed that his mind raced a little less when he talked to her. Instead his ideas flowed more freely than they had in years. In the four months since they found each other, he’d written about a third of his next novel. He had so much inspiration that he didn’t know what to do with, and for him, that was unheard of.

 

He’d even completed a few short stories that had nothing to do with his fairly established novelist career. They were different from his usual style, but at least he wasn’t ashamed to put his real name on them. Well, as close to his real name as he was willing to get. _J. Jones III_ instead of Tunny Wilkins. Not that he was ashamed of the books he’d written, but the short stories certainly didn’t match Wilkins’ usual writing style.

 

Jughead turned back to Archie as he lifted a six pack of some kind of beer Jughead had never heard of and motioned toward the television.

 

“The usual?” Archie asked, referencing their usual routine of pizza, beer, and video games.

 

“I’d hope so. Pizza is already in the kitchen and the console is set up.” Jughead chuckled to himself. They had the same routine since college. It was their way to destress after a killer week of classes.

 

They grabbed slices from the box in the kitchen and ate them quickly, not even utilizing the plates Jughead had out for them. They settled into the couch, each with a beer in one hand and a controller in the other.

 

They were about twenty minutes into their game when Archie broke character and said something that wasn’t an insult or smack talk.

 

“So, you still talkin’ to that broad from the internet?”

 

“Don’t call her that. And yes, I’m still talking to Betty.” Jughead rolled his eyes at Archie. Sometimes—very often—his best friend lacked any kind of tact.

 

“What’s it been, a few weeks now?”

 

“Four months.” Jughead’s voice was dry. “You’d think you’d be a little more understanding of our relationship considering you met Veronica on a rebound Tinder date after you broke up with Melody.”

 

“A relationship, huh?” Archie looked toward Jughead, who was still facing forward, trying to concentrate on their game. After a few beats, he pressed pause and gave in to his friend.

 

“Yes. Relationship.” His tone was flat, unamused. He didn’t like when Archie questioned what he was doing in his personal life.

 

“And if I heard correctly before you opened the door, you called her _baby_?” Archie’s fist was now resting under his chin, like he was anticipating Jughead’s answer with bated breath.

 

“I did.” He knew he was being short with Archie, but he didn’t feel the need to explain himself. After all, it was Archie’s idea he sign up for the website to begin with.

 

“You’re not a pet name kind of guy, Jug. If memory serves, and I’m sure it does,” he took a swig of his beer, “you’ve _never_ referred to any girlfriend as any kind of name other than their _actual_ name.”

 

“What’re you playing at, Archie? Is there a reason for this inquisition?” Jughead crossed his arms over his chest defensively.

 

“All I’m saying is that you don’t even know this br—girl. You haven’t even met her yet!”

 

“We’ve made plans to meet up, but the first time I got called into a last minute meeting with Ethel and the time after that she got a call from a coworker that she had an incoming body.”

 

Archie looked at him incredulously.

 

“She’s a forensic pathologist.”

 

He nodded his head in understanding, but his eyes still reflected what Jughead assumed was some kind of disgust.

 

“Do you even know her full name? Favorite color? How does she like her coffee? Where did she go to school? Do you even know when her birthday is, or where she’s from?” Archie fired off the questions rapid fire. It seemed his own brain couldn’t keep up.

 

“Dr. Elizabeth Jane Cooper. Jane for her grandmother on her mother’s side. Her favorite color is magenta or aqua, but never both together. She prefers tea, earl gray or green, but when she drinks coffee it’s one sugar and a splash of cream. She did her undergrad at NYU and graduated top of her class with a double-major in Human Biology and Psychology. She went to Johns Hopkins for medical school, but decided she hated Baltimore, so she transferred to Brown to finish out her M.D. and do her residency and fellowship. She got a call from a friend of the family in New York saying they had a spot here if she wanted it, and she took it.” Jughead took a deep breath.

 

“Her birthday is at the end of June and she grew up in Scarsdale with her mother, father, and older sister, Polly. Anything else you wanna throw at me?”

 

Archie sank back into the couch, gripping his beer bottle tightly in his hand. The shake in his head was slight, but Jughead saw it.

 

“Now, I repeat, what are you playing at? Can you even answer all of those questions about Veronica?” Jughead knew he couldn’t. Maybe at one point, he could’ve, but once he’d locked her down, he didn’t need to anymore.

 

He saw the blush of Archie’s cheeks next to the brown glass bottle that was pressed to his lips.

 

“I, just—”

 

“You just what, Archie? Can’t believe that I’m actually happy for once? Or is it because it’s with someone like her?”

 

“No, man. It’s not like that. I’m just worried about you. All I’m saying is be careful, I guess. No one is who they say they are online.”

 

Jughead huffed. “I am. She is. You might not think so, but she’s amazing. And smart. No, smart doesn’t even cover it. She thinks my awkward rambling is endearing and doesn’t pity me for how I grew up.”

 

“Wait, you told her?”

 

“Of course I did.”

 

“You must really like her then. You don’t tell anyone that.”

 

“Yeah.” Jughead ducked his head, cheeks on fire, words on the tip of his tongue. “She’s really special. I think I might be falling in love with her.” His last words were soft, not that he was hiding it or ashamed by any means, but it was the first time he had said them out loud. The first time he let himself think them without banishing the thought and instead reminding himself that he didn’t deserve love.

 

“Woah. That’s pretty… you’re sure?”

 

“No. Yes. I don’t know. I’ve never been there before, but if I had to guess, I’d say it would feel something like this.”

 

Archie stared at him, his eyes unblinking, awe written all over his face. Jughead couldn’t take it anymore.

 

“What?”

 

“You really love her. And you’re not scared?”

 

“Jesus, Archie. Of course I’m scared. This is all so new and it’s only been four months and that’s probably too soon, I know, but every time I hear her voice, my heart beats a little faster and I want to reach out and touch her. I wanna know what her skin feels like, what her hair smells like. Goddammit, I want to kiss her senseless. Well, I mean, not senseless, because clearly if she’s still talking to me, she’s already lost her mind.”

 

“Woah, woah, woah. Slow down there, turbo. Do I think four months is too soon to think you’re in love with someone you’ve never met? Absolutely. But, I know _you_ , Jug. We’ve been friends almost our entire lives. I’ve never seen you like this, so I know it’s something special. Just promise me something, okay?”

 

“What’s that?”

 

“Just,” he sighed, “be careful.”

 

Jughead sat back, trying to quell his racing thoughts. There were so many things he still wanted to know about her, and he knew if he asked she’d provide answers. They established their mutual need for honesty very early in their relationship and there was no reason for it to stop anytime soon. He needed to see her, to touch her. He’d know then, he’d know the minute they were face to face, hand in hand, if what he was feeling was real or not.

 

—

 

They had made it a habit, their nightly phone calls, and Jughead would always read the newest excerpt from his book to her before they hung up. She loved hearing how the story developed, like her own personal sneak peek before his editor even got to read it.

 

“Alright,” he said; she could hear him tapping away at his keyboard. “This takes place a little later in the story. All the details of how Deirdre gets caught aren't there yet, but she gets caught by one of the men she's been stalking, Bronson Cable. You following so far?”

 

“Yes.” She settled herself on her soft suede couch. She always eagerly anticipated story time and could listen to him recite his words for hours. Honestly, he could read her the dictionary and she’d happily listen. Not only was his narrative fascinating, his lead character admirable and compelling, but the cadence of his voice was relaxing. It was the perfect way to end her day.

 

Betty had grown to love his voice, the small nuances of his inflection, how it cracked just slightly when he was nervous. She loved the laugh that she could tell came straight from his gut when he found something _really_ funny. She loved the softness, too. The soft lilt when he would wish her goodnight, or when he got shy every time he told her she was beautiful.

 

It was all she had to cling to. She had yet to feel his fingers thread through her own or listen to his heartbeat. She wanted those things, but life kept getting in the way. She didn’t know whether it was the universe or her own fear intervening.

 

“Here we go,” he started and she leaned back and closed her eyes. “He dragged her worn body through the deteriorating hallway, only to throw her into a small room devoid of any windows. A solitary bottle of water was all the room contained.”

 

Betty nearly jumped out of her skin. His tone wasn’t familiar, one she recognized. It was dark, dominant, commanding. As she listened to his story unfold, a long-absent burning swelled in her abdomen. Betty bit her lip and clenched her thighs together to try to stifle the sensation, although it wasn’t entirely unwelcome.

 

“Now, if you’re a good little one, maybe you’ll get what you want, but first, you need to give me what I want.” Jughead read, voice husky.

 

Betty tried her best to hide her whimper through a cough in an attempt to avoid alerting Jughead to the effect his voice was having on her. She settled herself and tried to focus.

 

“Deirdre didn’t want to give Cable any of the information she’d kept close to her chest for years. But, if she wanted to escape, and if she wanted to succeed, she’d have to give up something. ‘Now, who are you, and why are you following me?’ Cable growled. Deirdre curled herself into a ball and attempted to play dumb, hoping this guy was as stupid as he looked. ‘I was hoping for a warm place to stay tonight. I’ve been on the streets for too long.’ She feigned innocence, even threw in a cough to be convincing.”

 

Betty was just starting to cool down when she was caught off guard again.

 

“‘Oh, you think you’re a clever little girl, don’t you? You think I don’t know you’re lying?’ Cable was approaching her now, his mouth dangerously close to her ear. She shivered, wanting nothing but to be far away from the vile man that stood before her.”

 

 _Does he know what he’s doing? He has to know. How could he not? Is he trying to do this?_ Her mind was racing. She knew they hadn’t explicitly talked about their particular flavors of fun in the bedroom, but she could swear he already knew hers just from the way he was reading.

 

She had to hold back another groan as she tried not to disrupt his meter. Her hands began to wander, trying to soothe the deep ache.

 

“C’mon, baby. Just a little bit of information? Cable tried to be sweet about it, but what he didn’t realize was that she was disgusted by him, disgusted by everything he stood for and had done in his life. She’d known all of it; it would come out eventually, but in that moment, all Deirdre was trying to do was survive.”

 

 _I know the feeling, girl,_ Betty thought. Without intention, her hands began to wander further than they’d already gone on their own volition. She was toying with the edge of her panties when Jughead’s voice cut through the haze of her arousal.

 

“Betty? Sorry, I have to take this call. It’s Ethel, from my publisher’s office. It shouldn’t take long. Do you mind?”

 

“N-no. Not at all. Take your time,” she stammered while her hand continued to play with her panties.

 

When she hadn’t heard anything for a few seconds, she knew the coast was clear. She smoothed her fingers up and down the seam of her panties again before slipping her hand inside and doing the same against her already slick folds.

 

“Jesus, Jughead, you have no idea the things you do to me,” she mumbled, thankful he was still on his other call.

 

She always loved it when he called her baby. He was always so shy, but never when he used that particular nickname. It was like he was struck with bravery every time he said it and she couldn’t get enough. So to hear him say it, not even to her, but in that voice, she was a goner. Her fingers moved to find her clit.

 

Her breathing was hitched, shallow, try as she might to stay quiet, just in case he came back to the call sooner than anticipated. She let out a soft mewl, slowly building herself up to her eventual sweet release. She didn’t hear Jughead rejoin the call; she was too distracted by his words replaying in her head.

 

Jughead heard a strangled moan through the receiver as he clicked back onto Betty’s call. He listened intently a while longer before it dawned on him what she was doing. _Oh. OH. Well, if that isn’t the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard,_ he thought.

  
All at once it hit him. He did that. He caused it. She was doing _that_ because of him, his words, his voice. He would be lying if he said he didn’t think of her in a sexual way, because he did, he _absolutely_ did. More nights than he would admit out loud, he’d stroked himself to release thinking about her pale pink pout and the curve of her hips that he’d only ever seen on his phone screen.

 

Hearing her in the throes of her passion stirred something in him. A switch flipped and all of the shyness he thought he would have when faced with their first sexual encounter was miraculously gone. If the thoughts in his head were any indication of where the night could go from here, it was surely going to be a good one.

 

“Mmm, Juggie,” she moaned again, so soft in his ear he thought he’d imagined it.

 

“Fuck, baby, you’re killing me,” he said, his tone dropping another octave. The other end of the phone went silent. He checked to make sure she hadn’t hung up as he palmed himself through his jeans.

 

It was a little too quiet, but he knew she was still there. Whatever she was doing, she had stopped, if her breathing was any indication. “Keep going, I like it.” It was a confession, a near whisper for only her to hear.

 

He heard her gasp and he imagined where her hands were and what they were doing to make her sound so blissful. He couldn’t wait for it to be his hands.

 

“Tell me, Betty. Is this the first time you’ve gotten off to my voice, or is it just the first time I’ve caught you?”

 

He heard her sigh. “Just the first time you caught me,” she admitted. Her voice was breathy and he was already overwhelmed.

 

He snapped open the button of his jeans and undid the zipper, just to relieve the tension quickly building behind the denim.

 

“Tsk tsk tsk, such a naughty girl.” He had a feeling, after thinking back to the passage that he read her, that she would enjoy the phrasing. This certainly could play to his advantage.

 

He could hear her shuffling. He closed his eyes trying to picture her, sprawled out on her bed or the couch, her hand tucked out of sight below her waistband, drawing her fingers up, down and through her folds, finding their way to her entrance and slowly making their way inside.

 

She moaned again, this time unrestrained, and it went straight to his already pulsing cock.

 

“What I wouldn’t give to be there. Right now. With my hands all over you.” His voice was gruff, and he had a feeling she liked it that way. If her answering moan was anything to go by, he was right. “Paint me a picture, baby. I wanna know what you’re doing.”

 

She paused her play momentarily to place her phone on speaker. Betty had one hand firmly on her left breast, toying and plucking at her nipple. Her other hand was preoccupied circling her clit, every so often dragged down to her entrance. She told him as much. She listened intently to his every word, revelling in them, drowning in them.

 

She abandoned her nipple in favor of her clit and pushed two fingers inside of herself. She wished they were his. She had been content in her recent years without a sexual partner, but something in Jughead simply awakened a part of her she’d forgotten existed.

 

She knew his hands would be strong; she could tell by the glimpses she’d gotten in the past weeks. She closed her eyes hard enough that if she just didn’t think, she could pretend they were his. His words goading her, spurring her on.

 

“I’m so wet for you, Jug,” she breathed.

 

Jughead’s eyes nearly rolled to the back of his head. He wanted to know what she felt like, what she tasted like. He wanted to feel her against him. He'd settle for stroking himself to the symphony of her short breaths and increasing moans.

 

“Tell me what you taste like, baby,” he said without thinking.

 

He could tell he had thrown her off by the way she stuttered her response.

 

“How?”

 

“Put those pretty little fingers of yours in your mouth and give them a lick,” he breathed, his hand stroking himself with more vigor. “Tell me.” It wasn't a request.

 

He heard her fingers pop from her mouth, followed by another long moan. “So good, Juggie.”

 

“Now, now. I'm sure you can do better than that, my sweet girl.”

 

She whimpered at his words. “Sweet,” she whined. “And a little salty.”

 

“Mmmm,” he moaned, “My favorite combination.”

 

Her fingers continued to circle her most sensitive area as she listened to Jughead give her direction and moan in response. She listened to every word, did as he said, plunged her fingers deep inside herself and curled them ever so slightly. She circled her clit slowly, torturously, just as he said.

 

It was already better than the last time she got herself off to the sound of his voice. Maybe it was because this time, he was an active participant.

 

“Oh God,” she whispered. Her senses were already heightened, and if she kept it up she'd be done before she was ready to be to no fault of her own. This time, it was all on him.

 

His moans spurred her on as she plunged deeper into herself, the picture of his silky black locks between her legs, his hands smoothing up her thighs, his hands replacing hers, his _mouth_ replacing everything.

 

She let out another loud, uncontrollable moan and it echoed through her apartment.

 

He was nearly there himself, listening to his beautiful girl on the other end of the phone. He squeezed his eyes shut and focused on the vision of her on top of him, his hand replaced with hers, as he spilled over his fingers and onto his stomach.

 

It was as if she could tell simply by the way he was breathing that he was at his peak, that before he was done working himself through his, he was goading her to hers.

 

“C’mon, baby. I know you wanna come for me,” he said nearly breathless, and that was all it took.

 

The sounds of her orgasm echoed through the phone and filtered into his ears. It was enough to make him hard all over again. What he wouldn’t give to see how beautiful she was when she came, his name on her lips and her hands tugging at his heart.

 

His breathing remained labored, just as hers did until eventually, it evened out. He peeled off his shirt and used it to clean himself up. He tossed the shirt to the other side of the room and relaxed back onto the couch, his laptop and novel forgotten.

 

The room was silent, just the sound of the whirring ceiling fan above him to ease his thoughts. The switch was flipped again, back to his default state of awkward. His heart raced, waiting for her to say something, waiting for the other shoe to drop. He wasn’t sure where his confidence came from; he’d never felt anything like it before.

 

Betty sat up straight on her couch and righted her clothing. She blew out a deep breath and sat forward with her elbows on her knees. She had gotten off to the sound of his voice before, but who knew that getting caught would be the best thing to come out of it? She certainly didn’t.

 

“Jug, are you still there?” He hadn’t said anything in a long time. “I’m sorry, I just—”

 

“No. Please don’t be sorry. I’m sorry, I mean, I don’t even know what that was, something just clicked and then—”

 

“If I can’t be sorry, neither can you,” she said, blushing at the thought. If she had known getting caught would result in _that_ , she would have done it a long time ago.

 

It eased his mind, hearing her say that. He wasn’t actually sorry. That was hands down, one of the best sexual encounters he’d ever had—including actual sex with women who were in the same room as he was. This blew those encounters out of the water.

 

“Can I tell you something?” _You’re choosing now to be shy? After what had just happened_? He shook his head at himself.

 

“Of course, sweetheart. Anything.”

 

“I’m not sorry.”

 

She laughed, the beautiful titter filling his ears. “Good, because neither am I.”

 

**\--**

 

Betty parked her car a safe distance away from where she knew Malachi Velasquez would be visiting that night. She had been researching the young man for a few weeks, ever since she had closed up her last case, and she’d found that he frequented the dilapidated apartment complex on West 143rd. He’d show up every Friday night at exactly 11:30 p.m, without fail. So far, she had no intel on why he visited or what he did there, but by the looks of him—and the state of the building—it probably wasn’t anything good.

 

She had thrown on her darkest rain jacket and a black beanie so she could tuck up and hide her bright blonde hair. She planned on lurking in the alleys, staying in the shadows so the unhinged man would not catch even the slightest glimpse of her.

 

For some reason, this case, more than others, felt risky.

 

Maybe it was because Malachi was more unpredictable than most. Maybe it was because his usual victims tended to be women a lot like Betty. Or, maybe it was because she felt like she had more to lose these days.

 

She shuddered violently at the thought. Malachi was very lucky he had never come across Betty and set his sights on her. She could just imagine what the bloody outcome would’ve been, and it wasn’t a lot unlike what she planned for him now.

 

His luck had finally run out.

 

But she wasn’t pulling the trigger tonight, so to speak. She was still gathering information on him—his associates, frequent spots, preferred victims—and contemplating just exactly how she would end his life. _Cleanly, painfully_ …

 

Like clockwork, the tall, skinny Hispanic man appeared around the corner of the apartment building, a backpack resting low on his back. That was different, she noted. He usually didn't travel with cargo.

 

She watched as he quickly glanced around, and when he seemed satisfied no one was watching him, he entered the building. She tried not to laugh. This kid thought he was slick, probably because he’d done so many unsavory things in his short life and somehow gotten away with them all, but he wasn’t slick tonight. She was watching him and he was none the wiser.

 

Betty waited and watched. For what, she wasn’t entirely sure, but then her target appeared in a window on the second level and opened it wide. She watched intently as he opened another, then another. She frowned from the safe darkness of her hiding spot across the street. Again, this was different.

 

It was another few minutes until she saw more movement. Now he was on the third and top floor. He opened another window before ducking away. Suddenly, her eyes were drawn to an increasing warm glow coming from the windows he had opened on the second floor. It flickered, almost like it was coming from the light of a television screen. But a television screen would be cold and blue instead of the warm, red wisps of light she was seeing from a distance.  

 

Within only ten minutes of entering, Malachi exited the apartment building. Betty watched with narrowed eyes as he walked in a different direction than he had come from. She glanced back at the building. The warm light was growing brighter on the second floor and was quickly finding its way to the third. Panic rose in her chest as she realized very quickly what was transpiring before her eyes.

 

Fire.

 

_He’d opened the windows so the night air would feed the flames and…_

 

Her mind raced as she quickly ran through her limited options. _Call the police?_ _No, she'd give herself away. Help people escape? That would tip off Malachi to her presence and throw off her entire investigation._

 

_Just leave?_

 

She paused for one very long moment—her eyes flicking back and forth from Malachi’s retreating figure to the building—and swallowed her guilt whole. As she saw smoke beginning to billow from the open windows, anger tore through her sharp and fast. She gritted her teeth as she watched people pour from the front door, gasping and coughing forcefully. She watched as displaced families searched frantically to find one another, as children shivered in their pajamas.

 

_Chase him._

 

The inferno in the building grew in time with the one in her chest.

 

_Finish him._

 

Betty stepped out of the safety of the shadows, and against all reason, she began following him. She picked up her pace but quickly realized she was going to lose him. She was too far behind and risked alerting him if she ran.

 

An idea flicked into her brain. She noted Malachi’s location and headed in the opposite direction, toward where she’d left her car. Perhaps she couldn’t catch him on foot, but he still wouldn’t be able to hide from her.

 

She hopped in her car and tore out of the abandoned lot, accelerating quickly as she doubled back to the street he’d escaped to. She reached blindly into her glove compartment, trying to feel out the cold metal of the gun she kept there in case of emergencies. She sighed in relief at its familiar grip as her eyes combed the sidewalks, looking for her target’s lanky figure.

 

She spotted him as he ducked slyly between two buildings. She peeled sharply to the right toward the river—she would go around the block and catch him on the other end of the alley, cutting him off at the pass. She sped through the dimly-lit street, hoping against all hope that she wasn’t being extremely stupid and reckless.

 

But she was. She knew it as she watched her speedometer exceed the legal limits; she knew it as she felt her seething rage burn hotter in her chest; she knew it as all the rationale she typically held flew out the window. But she didn’t _care._ All she cared about now were the countless young women Malachi had physically and sexually assaulted with no repercussions and the families who were in the process of losing their homes to this psycho’s malicious and seemingly random behaviour.

 

She only cared about making things right.

 

She pulled onto the vacant street that she anticipated he’d pop out on, but there was no sign of him. There was no dark figure emerging from the alley as she thought there would be.

 

 _Goddamnit,_ she cursed under her breath and slammed her hands on the steering wheel.

 

She hadn’t planned to kill him tonight, but the perfect opportunity had presented itself and she’d _missed it._ The police were likely otherwise occupied, he was just fresh off a heinous crime, and her blood boiled and her fingers twitched to end his life. But she had _lost him._ She had acted recklessly, potentially blowing her cover, perhaps drawing her attention to herself, for _nothing._

 

_Fuck fuck fuck fuck._

 

She pulled off to the shoulder to compose herself and to get her emotions back in check. She was breathing deeply and massaging her temples to calm herself when, out of the corner of her eye, she spotted his telltale curly black mane and lanky figure moving silently from between two buildings. As he made his way down the deserted street in front of her, she stiffened and her focus slipped into place.

 

She gripped the steering wheel, white-knuckled, and stepped on the gas.

 

The kid heard her approaching and glanced back. She saw the confusion and the subsequent realization flicker across his face before he started running. Her foot pressed the pedal to the floor.

 

Betty clenched her teeth in response to the sound the impact made. It was a hollow, muted thud, and then his body flew up and over her car. She saw the blur of it in her rearview mirror and slammed on her brakes.

 

He was groaning, muttering expletives through his teeth when she pressed the cold metal of the silencer to his forehead. She didn’t waste time cataloguing his injuries, talking, or getting answers. She just pulled the trigger. She would liken it to putting down a dog, but she'd have a harder time with that.

 

She slid her gun back into its rightful place in her glove compartment and grabbed a pair of disposable latex gloves she kept on hand. Thankfully, she had thought to store some in her car for those times she had to be extra careful of leaving prints. This was definitely one of those times.

 

She walked around back to Malachi’s lifeless body bleeding on the pavement and her stomach immediately sank at the image of the dark red staining the ground below him. This death wouldn’t pass as natural, an accident, or a suicide; not with his hard impact conflicted contusions, surely some broken bones, and a bullet hole in the side of his head.

 

Her vision blurred. She leaned her elbows on her knees and cradled her head in her hands, fighting nausea.

 

_How could you be so goddamn stupid?_

 

She never intended to make such a mess, she just wanted him gone from the world. She just wanted to make sure he couldn’t hurt anyone else, couldn’t escape the law once again. So he couldn't escape her.

 

The hot sensation of bile in her throat replaced the anger she had felt before and she swallowed thickly. She tried, through the fog of anxiety, to piece together a solution. Scatter the scene, displace the patterns—

 

_Ruin the evidence._

 

Betty stood up straight, suddenly noticing her surroundings. Water. The river. Like the destructive light of his match, an epiphany sparked in her head that would do just as much damage. But this time, instead of harming others, it would protect her.

 

But she had to act fast.

 

She reached down and grabbed his legs with her gloved hands, and with all her upper body strength, heaved his dead weight toward the river. If she could just get him in there, the water would do the rest of her job for her. It would flood his body, change the appearance of his injuries, confuse whoever performed his autopsy. She knew it was a risky move, but she was confident enough in her knowledge of the decomposition process to chance it.

 

Betty felt strongly, as his body tumbled over the edge of the bridge to its watery grave, that she would have the power to control this death narrative like she had the others. At least, she hoped.

 

She watched long enough to see his body sink below the water’s dark surface.

.

.

.

 

 


	5. Plot Twist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hey! Welcome back! We're so happy you're here to join us for Chapter Five: Plot Twist! 
> 
> We are still so overwhelmed and blown away by your comments on the previous four chapters. Seriously, you guys have been amazing and we cannot thank you enough!
> 
> Now that our dear Riverdale is on hiatus for the winter, we are back to our regular Wednesday chapter updates. That and with holidays falling on the Tuesday, we figured it was just easier all around for everyone. 
> 
> As you can see, we put a final number of chapters in place of that pesky question mark, which means, we are officially half way through! Not too much more can happen, right? They're gonna meet and its gonna be happily ever after, right? Right?! 
> 
> Welp, you're just going to have to read and find out, won't you? Without further babbling, we hope you enjoy our newest chapter of Murder, He Wrote.

* * *

* * *

 

 

 

Betty wasn’t used to feeling remorse after a kill.

 

She had left the scene of the crime that night with a heavy knot in her stomach. Not because she’d killed the sociopath of course—she would never feel bad about that—but because she hadn’t acted in the careful and controlled manner she usually did. The kill was messy, suspicious, _risky_. She convinced herself it would be okay, because it was all she could do as she made her way home—stopping on the way for an impromptu car wash—to avoid a full-blown panic attack.

 

She couldn’t avoid the dread for long, though. Every day that Malachi’s body wasn’t found, she slipped further and further to the edge of sanity. She was nervous, jumpy, absent-minded. Just _off._ And while no one else seemed to notice, Jughead did.  

 

 **Jughead** : I know you said it’s been a hard week at work, but I feel like there’s something else.

 **Jughead** : Are you sure that’s all that’s bothering you?

 

Despite herself, Betty smiled at his concern. It was sweet, though ultimately unhelpful. She couldn’t tell him what was really going on. She picked at her torn nail beds as she tried to figure out how to answer him.

 

 **Betty** : I had a nasty homicide a while back. They’re seriously considering calling me as an expert witness in the trial.

 

Betty nodded to herself. It was close enough. It certainly could explain her recent strange behaviour.

 

 **Betty** : I don’t like going to court. And I don’t like having to recount this shit. And I don’t like being cross-examined.

 **Jughead** : But if you take notes, which I know you do, and have recordings of your process, why would you need to testify? Can’t you just submit your records?

 

If only her actual situation was that easy. Though she _did_ hate going to trial, she would choose to be an expert witness any day over being a suspect.

 

 **Betty** : You’d think. But sometimes the records aren’t enough. An expert witness testimony is far more reliable evidence.

 **Betty** : We’ll see what happens. I just want to put this one behind me, but I can’t stop thinking about it.

 **Jughead** : Anything I can do to distract you?

 **Betty** : I don’t know…

 **Jughead** : Will this do the trick?

 

A photo appeared — Jughead’s smiling, handsome face and a tiny English bulldog puppy filled her screen. She crooned, her bottom lip jutting out. She stared at the gorgeous pair and noticed they shared the same crystal blue eyes.

 

 **Betty** : That is easily the cutest thing I’ve seen all day. All week. All my life.

 **Jughead** : He’s pretty cute, huh?

 **Jughead** : Archie and Veronica are away this week and asked me to watch this little monster. How could I say no to that face?

 

She was slightly distracted, her almost completely frayed nerves were given a rest. She tried to focus on the caring man texting her, pretending for a moment that her life was normal, happy, and not characterized by secrets and death at every turn. She allowed herself to bask in the illusion.

 

 **Betty** : You can’t. It’s impossible.

 **Betty** : What’s the sweetie’s name?

 **Jughead** : Benji, but I’ve been calling him FlapJack.

 **Betty** : FlapJack, really?

 **Betty** : I love Benji. Can I steal him? I’ve heard puppy therapy is a thing.

 **Jughead** : I believe that it is. But I don’t think Archie and V would appreciate it very much if you stole their new pup.

 **Betty** : Damn it. Fine.

 **Jughead** : What if, since you can’t come snuggle with us, we watch 101 Dalmatians instead. Would that count as puppy therapy?

 

It wasn’t the first time they’d watched a movie over Skype together. Jughead wondered what it would be like to have her tucked into his side, maybe her head across his lap, his fingers combing through her hair. But for now, Benji would have to do.

 

His mind kept wandering to Betty. Of course it did; it nearly always did. She seemed more on edge than usual, scatterbrained like he’d never thought possible. Betty was the most organized person he’d ever known. He knew something was wrong, but clearly she didn’t want to talk about it. All he could do was be there for her in whatever way she would allow—and if that meant watching “101 Dalmatians” with her via Skype, then he’d do it.

 

They said their goodnights, with a little extra cooing for Benji before he ended the call. He took Benji for a walk before turning in for the night. When they got back home, the pup plopped himself into his bed and Jughead did the same.

 

He stared at the ceiling, trying to make sense of Betty’s behavior. He’d almost call it erratic. She jumped all over the place, changing subjects constantly. She seemed to scare more easily in recent days and was seemingly disinterested in their nightly readings.

 

He thought it strange; she always loved when he read to her, or so he believed. He was beginning to doubt the entirety of their relationship. _What’d I do wrong?_ The question played in his head as his eyes fell heavy with sleep.

 

He sent his usual good morning text, but this time, he attached a picture of a sprawled out Benji along with it. He figured maybe if she saw it first thing, it would help her day go a little better. It took a while for her to respond; she was always at work before he woke up, but it seemed to have brightened her day.

 

He set himself up on the couch with his morning—well, afternoon—coffee and flicked on the television.

 

“Authorities are still investigating the cause of a deadly fire that raced through an apartment building earlier this week. As bodies are still being recovered from the remains of the building, the NYPD and the NYFD are working hard to decipher the cause of the fire. So far, the death toll is estimated to be 8 people,” the perky brunette news anchor said in a tone that did not denote any kind of sadness.

 

Images of a scorched apartment building filled the screen, crowds of people surrounding it to see what they could of the ruins.

 

“No wonder she’s stressed, she’s slammed at work more than she said she was,” Jughead mumbled to himself, Benji perking up from his bed at his voice.

 

\--

 

A few days later, another medical examiner, Reginald Mantle, handled Malachi’s autopsy. As Betty expected, he ruled the death a homicide, citing the bullet wound, multiple broken limbs and contusions. To Betty’s shaky delight, the police’s investigation was following leads related to gang violence and old vendettas. She seemed to be off the hook.

 

It was an incredible relief. But even as life returned to normal, there was still something about Malachi Velasquez that bothered Betty. His behaviour, while horrible enough to be deserving of death, didn’t make sense. She knew his crimes, was even aware of the grisly specifics, but she couldn’t draw a straight line from them to some kind of reason. Most criminals had what the justice system called _actus reus_ and _mens rea,_ the guilty act and mind, but he was different. It was like his guilty acts were born out of pure random impulse; there was no indication of sensible motivation. For once, Betty felt like she was missing a huge piece of the puzzle.

 

She was determined to find that piece. After all the danger she’d put herself in, finding answers to these questions was the least she could do to finally close this chapter and ease her mind completely.

 

It was the fire that confused her the most. Malachi didn’t have prior arson charges. So why would he suddenly torch a building he’d been visiting frequently?

 

Her first thought was that he was trying to hide something. Perhaps he had illegal substances in the apartments or he’d done something particularly heinous there. But, why would he choose to draw attention to one of his crime scenes, just in case the fire didn’t destroy everything? Unless he was a moron... but that didn’t make sense either. Betty didn’t think he was stupid; he’d been charged with assault and subsequently acquitted dozens of times. That was another mystery on its own.

 

Her next thought was revenge. She knew that Malachi had been associated with some questionable people and the police’s current investigation corroborated that fact. Reggie had shared with her that they’d found evidence of Malachi’s involvement in two gangs, now joined, the Ghoulies and the Serpents. Betty was familiar with how gangs worked, she knew that it wasn’t all rainbows and sunny skies within the folds. Often, distrust and disobedience reigned supreme and caused violent turmoil.

 

Maybe Malachi’s burning of that building was an act of revenge, rebellion. A _fuck you_ to someone who’d done him wrong. From what she knew of his personality, it made sense. It seemed like something the cocky and unstable man would’ve done.

 

_But who was he trying to piss off?_

 

It was this line of thinking that led her to track down the deed of sale for the building. A strange name, _Forsythe Pendleton Jones II,_ was scribbled in full under 'owner'. It sounded like some ritzy, pretentious douchebag. Maybe someone Malachi could’ve been working for, doing his dirty work?

 

She let her research sit for a few days until a load of charred bones was delivered to Cheryl’s examination table from the site of the apartment building. She watched, in mute horror, as Cheryl pieced together the skeletons of eight teenage girls. Eight girls, who Cheryl estimated ranged in age from fourteen to nineteen, had lost their lives because of Malachi, and perhaps this Forsythe guy. Her passion and rage were immediately reignited.

 

Upon inputting the name into several databases, Betty was faced with pages upon pages of criminal activity. This Forsythe character was wanted for dozens of assaults, child abuse, and possession of child pornography. He was suspected of kidnapping and malicious imprisonment, as well as drug and weapon running for the Serpents and the Ghoulies. He was, if she was comparing, far worse than Malachi, and she desperately wanted him dead.

 

But she’d swore to herself Malachi would be the last victim for a while, for her sake and for Jughead’s.

 

_But one more wouldn’t hurt, right?_

 

 _Just this last one,_ she reasoned with herself. _and then I’ll commit to a normal life. At least for a while._

 

In the weeks following the apartment fire and Malachi’s death, Betty spent her nights pouring over the files of information she had found on Forsythe. Once she had said goodbye to Jughead for the night, she would pull out her research and work for hours, orchestrating the perfect kill. This one she wouldn’t mess up. This one would be quick, clean, and smart, and then she’d be able to move on.

 

But even in the countless scenarios she imagined, nothing seemed to be enough, nothing seemed like it would do the job justice. Not for the girls in the wreckage, not for the people he’d murdered, certainly not for her in her quest. She wanted to inflict pain, keep him alive long enough to suffer, but she couldn’t be irresponsible. Her life—and now her relationship—was at stake.

 

Jughead was waiting patiently to meet her. He was persistent though; he asked her every weekend if they could finally meet up, but she always made an excuse. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to take that next step—she wanted to meet him, desperately. Every time she spoke to him, every time she saw his handsome face over Skype, she felt a longing to touch, hold, kiss the man she’d gotten to know over the last five months. But she had to be careful. She couldn’t let their relationship progress past technology until she had finished the job she started. She couldn’t, _wouldn’t_ involve him.

 

But that didn’t mean she couldn’t ask for his opinion.

 

 **Betty:** Hey, honey. How’s the writing going tonight?

 **Jughead** : I’m a little stuck right now. I could use a distraction ;)

 **Betty** : I have a prompt for you if you want it.

 

She was sure he meant a different kind of distraction, but she was armed with information and crime scene photos—the image of the skeletons from the fire on Cheryl’s table fueling her grudge. Betty needed to know how Deirdre Byrne would do it. She needed some fresh insight.

 

 **Betty** : How would Deirdre kill a serial rapist and child abuser? Would you have it be brutal or just kind of understated?

 

\--

 

 _Oh. Now, that’s a good one. One of the best ones yet,_ he thought.

 

Jughead was used to questions like this out of the blue. Fairly frequently, she’d give him a prompt—a question or scenario—for him to extrapolate upon, to challenge him, to make him think of something he wouldn’t have thought otherwise. He loved it. She was invested in his work, she looked forward to talking about his progress or ideas and gave suggestions and tweaks where she could.

 

If he didn’t think she was perfect before, well, he certainly did now.

 

He contemplated her question. Maybe it would be something elegant but understated. Effective, but not too heinous. Maybe she would make it would look like natural causes—a shot of air to the webbing of his toes to mimic a heart attack—the illusion of karma just winning out in the end.

 

Or maybe it would be the most brutal murder on this side of the Mississippi.

 

He thought about the question through his main character’s eyes. Deirdre had a lot of rage in her; she had from a young age.

 

 **Jughead** : I don’t think people like that deserve any mercy. A gunshot is too simple, but repeated stabbing to the chest is exhausting, not to mention a total mess. And with a mess comes the need for added precautions and a greater likelihood of misstepping.

 **Jughead** : Deirdre wouldn’t be able to overpower a man like that. This guy is probably strong, definitely stronger than her. She is pretty tiny, after all.

 

He clicked his fingers against the keys, but nothing was coming to him. He’d written murders before; he wasn’t sure why it was taking him so long to think about it. Then it hit him.

 

 **Jughead** : Maybe poison.

 **Jughead** : No. Not poison.

 **Jughead** : She disguises herself, goes undercover in a way. She tries to make herself look as young as possible to attract this guy. Let’s call him Chester Brantworth.

 

He chuckled to himself at the ridiculous name he’d come up with on the fly.

 

 **Jughead** : She’s pulled out all the stops to ensure her safety and to secure her identity.

 **Jughead** : Her hair is secured back carefully. She’s wearing gloves, under the guise that it’s a cold night, but really it’s a forensic countermeasure. Her shoes are soled in the most generic pattern so that even if she did leave behind a print, it couldn’t be traced easily. Maybe she even wears two different size shoes to throw any investigators off even more.

 

He cracks his knuckles in front of him easily and stretches his neck to either side before diving in, his mind flooded with ideas.

 

 **Jughead** : Brantworth falls for her trick hook, line, and sinker. He thinks she’s homeless and alone. Vulnerable. But he falls into her trap. To anyone else, he’s being a good Samaritan, helping a young, defenseless girl off the street for the night, but Deirdre knows what’s happening. He leads her to his home or the space he uses for his “work.”

 

Betty consumed his words, reading the detailed description of the man’s death with rapt attention. _It was utterly perfect._ His plan was the best combination of torture and sense, one she never would’ve landed on herself. She would’ve gone too big, or settled on something effective but boring. But Jughead, her favourite mystery crime novelist at this point, had just written her a narrative worthy of a prize.

 

She would’ve kissed him if it were possible.  

 

 **Jughead** : I’m sorry, Betts. Is that too graphic? I got a little carried away.

 

She giggled at the absurdity of his question.

 

 **Betty** : No, baby, it’s perfect. Bless your heart.

 

\--

 

It took her some time and patience, but eventually, Betty came across a lead as to his location. Forsythe Junior rented an apartment not terribly far from where his former apartment lay in a pile of ash. It was all she had. Other than the one real estate venture, Forsythe was a ghost.

 

She hid in the shadows, waiting through long hours of the night for him to show up. Most nights, he was with the same woman. Betty couldn’t make out her features well, but she was small, much smaller than him, with dirty blonde hair and a worn leather jacket. But the nights he wasn’t with his blonde companion, he was dragging what looked like pre-teens by the hand into the building, eyes darting around, looking for anyone else on the street.

 

By the time she saw him with his fifth victim, she’d had enough. She surely had enough information and insight to set the plan into motion. All she had to do was gather all necessary supplies, and then she would be ready.

 

Most importantly, she would need something to sedate him, something that would slow down and weaken his body so he couldn’t overpower her. She knew from experience that allergy medication could induce drowsiness, and if mixed with alcohol, could act as a heavy sedative. Not only was it effective, it was also a tricky drug to detect on a toxicology report because, in excess, it had a similar chemical composition to methadone. It was the ideal choice and Betty only had to dig through her medicine cabinet in order to find the small white bottle she needed to get the job done.

 

She also required a length of sturdy rope, which she decided would be wise not to supply herself. It wasn’t an issue though; she would bet her life that Forsythe Junior would have some kind of restraints at his place. She looked forward to the incredibly cathartic experience of using his own tools against him.

 

The day she planned to end his life, she woke up refreshed and energized. Ready for action, ready for war. She was cheery and friendly at work, even nice to Cheryl in her good mood. It was all almost over, and then the world would be a better place. Every time she killed, the world was a better place.

 

That was the world she wanted to start her future with Jughead in. She wanted their relationship to start off on the right foot, without anything hanging over them, without fear and uncertainty clouding their path.

 

\--

 

The night started off innocently enough. Once back at Forsythe’s place, Betty made herself comfortable on his raggedy couch while he placed a cup of tea in front of her and another glass of something alcoholic in front of him.

 

She smiled softly at him sitting across from her and blinked lightly, innocently. “Can I bother you for some water instead?” Jughead’s words rang in her head. _She needs him to leave the room._

 

He frowned but nodded slowly and retreated to the kitchen. She watched his figure disappear around the corner, and then immediately took out the bag holding the powdered antihistamine. She dumped it quickly in his drink and then stuffed the bag back into her shirt.

 

Forsythe came back a few moments later with her water and she smiled again in thanks. She watched quietly as he finished his drink with a loud gulp and a grimace. _He doesn’t feel right; maybe he’s had too much too quickly._

 

Betty held her glass of water, sipping from it occasionally as she waited for the medication to take effect on the large man.

 

“Thanks for letting me stay here. I don’t know what I would have done if I had to stay on the street another night.” She stared at him over the rim of her cup as she took another sip, then lowered the cup and licked her lips. “I wish there was some way I could repay you.” She shuddered inwardly at the idea, trying her hardest not to vomit at the thought of actually having to touch him.

 

His bloodshot and hazy eyes glittered as he leered at her. “No problem, princess. It’s my pleasure.”

 

Her stomach rolled at the implication and all she wanted to do at that moment was hurt him, but she fixed her face in an appreciative smile instead.

 

He stumbled as he stood, then walked a few steps before landing heavily in another chair. She watched as he fought sleep, his eyes opening and closing until his heavy lids finally won the battle. He was still as he slept; the only movements were the rising and falling of his chest.

 

Betty looked around quickly. She had a slim window to act, to get him secure before he came to. She paced around his apartment, opening and closing cupboards and cabinets, carefully searching through closets. She entered his room—it was messy and smelled worse than the autopsy suite sometimes did—and tore through his belongings that littered the floor. She caught a glint of metal in the mess. _Handcuffs_ , she realized, and a jolt of relief shot through her. She quickly snatched a few belts that lay strewn across the end of his bed, a long string from a hoodie, a woman’s scarf and a scratchy looking rope, and then returned to his sleeping body.

 

 _Chest, legs, wrists, ankles, and knees, because she knows he’s strong._ Once again, Jughead’s words rang in her head. She grabbed Forsythe’s shoulders and leaned him up straight, yanking his arms backward to lock them together and to the chair. She secured the thickest belt across his shoulders, and the other around his thighs and underneath the chair. She took the hoodie string and wound it tightly around his wrists, ensuring he wouldn’t be able to jostle his hands at all. She wrapped the scarf several times around both his ankles—bless the length of women’s accessories these days—and pulled them taut against the legs of the chair. Lastly, she tied the rope tightly around his knees, securing it with intricate knots, making it impossible for him to squirm.

 

As she pulled her last knot tight, she heard a quiet groan leave his mouth. She smirked as she grabbed a chair to set up in front of him, sliding her switchblade out of the spot she’d been concealing it as she took a seat. She clicked it open and closed repeatedly, waiting for him to become fully awake. Fully aware. She would wait until he was present—mind and body—before she started.

 

He woke up slowly, likely due to the fog of the alcohol clouding his brain. She laughed as he began to struggle against the restraints. “There’s no way you’re getting out of those. I learned how to tie knots when I was _very young.”_

 

He continued to struggle but to no avail. She rolled her eyes and stood, wandering over to the shelves on the far wall. They held various items: glasses, jewellery, dolls, underwear, single shoes. Betty studied the artifacts of his victims, left behind and kept as trophies. A pink sock that had strawberries printed on it caught her eye; she picked it up gently and fingered its soft fibres.

 

“What were you going to keep from me?” she asked as she turned to look at him.

 

He stared at her and his eyes held no hint of their former seduction. As he seethed, his face turned red and puffy.

 

She turned back to the shelf, hearing Jughead’s words once again. _She had taken the time to rearrange some things._ She picked up a few more objects and walked back over to her hostage. She placed them carefully around him—on the floor, on a nearby table, on the chair she’d sat in. She continued silently until all his trophies surrounded him, taunting him. She put her hands on her hips and admired her handiwork.

 

“Fitting, don’t you think?” She grinned at him and laughed. “Which one is your favorite, you fucking creep?”

 

He tried to rock back and forth, but the chair didn’t budge under his weight. He tried to pull his arms out of the cuffs, but the materials Betty had found held him tight. He was stuck. Done for.

 

At her mercy.

 

And she had none left.

 

She clicked open her blade again and traced it lightly on her palm. _Sharpened just for the occasion._ She moved between the display she had just created to stand in front of her victim and bent at the waist so they were eye to eye.

 

She noticed it then, the familiarity. It was like she’d looked into these eyes before, or maybe eyes that were similar. He growled again and snapped her out of her thoughts.

 

“Yours, princess. At least your keepsake I’ll have to earn,” he snarled. “The rest of these bitches were easy pickings.”

 

She felt a sick turn in her gut at his words and her lunch threatened to return. She gritted her teeth to force the sensation away and pressed the tip of her knife to his chest. He grimaced in pain but the disgusting smile still remained on his lips.

 

“Shut the _fuck_ up,” she spat. “You won’t be earning anything, you piece of shit.”

 

She pressed down on her knife harder and watched as tiny specks of blood seeped from beneath its tip. He sucked in a sharp breath and tried to flinch away, but her knots held him tight. She dragged the blade across his chest and up to his shoulder blade, then slowly down his arm, leaving a trail of dotted blood in its wake. Her cut wasn’t deep enough to draw rivets yet, but it was enough to scare him. Enough to show him what was to come.

 

She made her way behind him so he couldn’t see her, couldn’t anticipate her moves. She wouldn’t speak again. _She doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of hearing her voice, because she knows that’s part of it for him._ She examined his neck, red from exertion and heaving from the panic that was setting in. His breathing laboured as she lowered the blade back to him, this time against the fragile skin of his neck. He choked slightly from the pressure. She chuckled as she pressed harder still, and then suddenly lifted the blade altogether. He gasped one last clean breath of air before she plunged the blade into his neck. _Hitting the carotid artery._

 

She bit her lip to keep from laughing as the man wheezed and sputtered.

 

Betty had anticipated the splatter patterns. She pulled her knife back and marvelled as a single stream of blood spurted forcefully from his wound like a faucet turned open. In all her kills, she had never seen something quite like this, and it was almost comical.

 

She was about to wipe the blade clean on the material of the couch but remembered there was still one last thing to do. _For herself, and to avenge his victims, she stabs the knife between his legs, castrating him. A rush of satisfaction flows through her as she watches his face contort in pain._ She imagined Jughead’s voice whispering the words in her ear.

 

Mutilating him was poetic justice. It was almost as horrible as what he’d done to others.

 

It was exactly what he deserved.

 

It didn’t take long for him to bleed out and fall unconscious; she watched the entire process through narrowed eyes. She didn’t typically dwell on the deaths of her victims—her practice was to stab and slab—but to see Forsythe Junior choking, fighting, essentially staring death in the face as it barreled toward him felt _right._ In the deepest parts of her, she felt content, relieved. Happy.

 

She left his body tied to the chair, surrounded by the mementos from his victims, in the middle of a vast puddle of blood. She hoped one of his associates would find him and get the message loud and clear.

 

This was how people who lived like Forsythe Junior died.

 

\--

 

The following days felt like a vacation compared to the stress Betty had been dealing with before. She wasn’t even phased when her latest victim’s body was dropped into the autopsy suite and assigned to Reggie instead of her. She was at peace with the way she executed her last hit and she was sure there was nothing any of the pathologists or the police could find that would implicate her.

 

And to make matters even better, she now felt free to take her relationship with Jughead to the next level. All through her morning cases, while she meticulously weighed organs and measured wounds, she practically bounced with anticipation. Her desperation to see him and talk to him had increased tenfold.

 

As she sat down for lunch, she noticed several messages from Jughead on her phone. Like a 16-year old in the midst of her first crush, a light feeling fluttered in her chest as she opened and read them.

 

 **Jughead** : Hey beautiful.

 **Jughead** : I know you’re working, but I just wanted to say hi and I miss you.

 **Jughead** : Text me at lunch?

 

She was unable to mask the grin that spread across her face.

 

 **Betty** : Hi Juggie! How’s your day going? I miss you, too.

 **Jughead** : It’s going. I’m finding it a little hard to concentrate today.

 **Betty** : Wow, me too. But that’s because I have this incredible guy on my mind. What’s your reason?

 **Jughead** : I sent my latest chapter to Ethel, so I’m waiting to hear back from her.

 **Jughead** : I’m still that guy, right? Haven’t traded me in for a new one yet?

 

She felt a dull jab of guilt. She had been a little distant lately with him, wrapped up in her problems. She needed him to know that nothing had changed.

 

 **Betty** : Of course not. There’s only one Jughead for me.

 **Jughead** : Hopefully there’s only one Jughead period. I don’t know who else would choose a name like that. Hah.

 **Betty** : It’s ‘cause you’re one of a kind, honey.

 **Jughead** : That was really smooth, baby.

 **Jughead** : What’s got you so chipper today? I mean, more so than usual.

 

Betty smiled and tapped her fork on her teeth. _How to explain this one_ , she thought. She was looking forward to the days where she would no longer have to omit the truth when speaking with Jughead.

 

 **Betty** : It’s been an easy week. I got most of my cases done, all my paperwork filed. And I found out today that I have a day off on Friday!

 **Betty** : So… I’ve been meaning to ask you…

 

At that moment, Betty heard shrieking coming from the entry hall.

 

“This is the second investigation you morons have fucked up in the last month!” A woman's shrill voice carried down the hallway to the lunch room. “First, my nephew is brutally put down by some psycho, and then my boyfriend is found mutilated in our apartment, and no one gives a shit about either!”

 

Betty’s eyes widened as she realized who the hysterical woman was. She’d read about her, seen her from a distance, and knew that it couldn’t be anyone other than Penny Peabody. She stood, forgetting about her salad and her phone for the moment, and half ran down the hallway to the front desk.

 

It was definitely Penny, dressed in her signature shabby leather jacket, her stringy blonde hair thrown up in a haphazard ponytail. Betty would recognize the filthy woman anywhere after trailing her lover for weeks. She was seething, spitting her words directly in Reggie’s face. He tried to take a step back, but the irate woman followed his every step. Betty leaned in the doorway, watching the confrontation, waiting to step in if Reggie needed help to calm her down.

 

Reggie put his hands up between them. “Ma’am, I’m going to need you to bring it down a few notches—”

 

“No one in the gang wanted to take out Mal, everyone loved him. This was another person, an outside enemy, and I demand you take another look at both of their bodies.” Penny stabbed her finger accusingly at Reggie. “I bet it was the same fucking person who killed them both.”

 

Betty snorted quietly in the doorway, unable to stop herself. So, she’d accidentally taken out two members of Penny’s family. Normally the connection between her victims would scare her, but she couldn’t find it in herself to care this time, or worry. _Karma really is a bitch_ , she thought to herself.

 

Penny’s stormy gaze flicked over to Betty. Her eyes narrowed infinitesimally before her attention was drawn back to Reggie.

 

“Both autopsies have been finished and signed off on. The rest of the investigation is in the hands of the police,” he explained to her in an even tone. “There’s nothing we can do.”

 

Her upper lip pulled up in a snarl. “Of course not. You people are fucking useless,” she spat, glancing back over at Betty. She glared at her before spinning around and leaving in a huff.

 

Reggie turned to Betty, eyes wide. “Jesus Christ.”

 

Betty rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Hysterical,” she said as she turned to go back to the lunch room.

 

She wasn’t even slightly worried about Penny’s angry determination for justice. The woman was clearly unhinged, probably under the influence of whatever drug her gang was peddling these days. There was no way in hell that she was capable of figuring out the truth. Betty didn’t even leave a trace that the police could find, no less a crazy, coked-up relative in denial.

 

She pushed Penny out of her mind as she sat back down at her table, picking up her fork and swiping at her phone screen. There was a new message from Jughead, who was likely confused at her sudden disappearance.

 

 **Jughead** : ...ask me what?

 **Betty** : Sorry. I just had to deal with a family member real quick.

 **Betty** : Ask you if you wanted to finally meet. In person.

 **Jughead** : I’ve been asking you for weeks to finally meet and you’ve always had something going on.

 **Jughead** : Why the sudden change of heart?

 

She frowned. She didn’t blame him, not after the last few weeks, for thinking she’d changed her mind about him. But he was wrong, _completely wrong._ She chewed on her lip as she tapped out her response.

 

 **Betty** : It’s not a change of heart, Jug. It’s a change of schedule.

 **Betty** : I’m so sorry it’s taken this long. My life has been insane lately.

 **Jughead** : I know it has.

 **Jughead** : It explains why you’ve been so… distant the last few weeks.

 

She could imagine what his voice would sound like, what his face would look like saying those words to her. It made her chest tighten.

 

 **Betty** : I’m sorry, Juggie. Really, I am.

 **Betty** : I want to meet you. I want to see you in the flesh, to be able to reach out and touch you.

 **Betty** : I want to start this with you.

 **Jughead** : Start this? What do you call the last six months?

 

She stared at his words, her pulse quickening before another message came through.

 

 **Jughead** : I’m kidding. I want to, too. For real.

 

She sighed in relief and raked her free hand through her hair. _Little shit,_ she thought as she responded.

 

 **Betty** : Jesus Jug, don’t freak me out like that.

 **Betty** : So, Friday?

 **Jughead** : Noon?

 **Betty** : It looks like we have ourselves a date.

 **Jughead** : Our first of hopefully many more. ;)

 

**\--**

 

It was around the usual time he called Betty for their nightly chat when his phone rang from across the room. It wasn’t her. He knew that much based solely on the sound emanating from the speaker.

 

It was a number he didn’t recognize. Local, but he’d never seen it before. He was hesitant to pick it up, but he swiped the green call button.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Is this Forsythe Jones the Third?” the unfamiliar voice returned.

 

“Depends who’s calling.” Jughead’s voice was measured, careful.

 

It had been a very long time since he was addressed by his proper name. As a matter of fact, it had been years since he’d even told anyone.

 

“This is Officer Samuels from the NYPD, 44th precinct. Is this Forsythe?”

 

“Please, call me Jughead. How can I help you, Officer?”

 

Panic rose in his throat. _Why on earth would a precinct in the Bronx be calling? How did they even get this number?_

 

“We’re going to need you to come down to the station, Mr. Jones. We will explain everything when you get here, but we need you to identify your father’s body.”

.

.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sunshine and happiness, right? Let us know what you think in the comments, or find us on tumblr/bughead family discord: @shrugheadjonesthethird and @psychobetts!
> 
> As always, thank you to Lyss (@bettscoopr/breathewords) and Heather (@whaticameherefor) for being the most amazing beta's we could ask for. We love you dearly. Thank you for dealing with us and our craziness!


	6. Turning Point

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why hello! Welcome back! We hope you all had a wonderful holiday!
> 
> Are you guys ready to dive into the next chapter of this crazy story?  
> Well, we're ready for you guys to read it!
> 
> every thanks for our girls Lyss and Heather for being the most amazing betas we could ask for. we love you!

* * *

* * *

 

 

Jughead’s phone felt heavy in his hand. His chest constricted painfully as he tried to find the words.

 

“Uh,” he stuttered, “when?”

 

“At your earliest convenience.”

 

The rest of the conversation was brief, just the officer giving him the address of the precinct and where to go once he got there. Jughead hung up the phone, more confused than when he picked it up.

 

He shot a text to Betty letting her know he would call her later. _My dad is dead_ , he tapped out.

 

Before he grabbed his jacket and keys, he saw one last text from Betty.

 

 **Betty** : Oh God. Sweetheart, are you okay?

 **Jughead:** I don’t know. I have to go identify his body.

 **Betty** : I’m so sorry, Juggie. Call me when you’re ready?

 

It didn’t seem real. He wasn’t sure what to feel, so he didn’t answer.

 

\--

 

Betty was cleaning up her dinner, awaiting Jughead’s call when her phone buzzed on the counter. She reached over for it, expecting another buzz indicating a call when she noticed her screen.

 

_1 new message from Jughead._

 

She swiped at her screen to open the messaging app. Four words stood back at her, stark and lonely on the screen compared to his usual lengthy musings.

 

 _My dad is dead_ , it read, and Betty’s stomach dropped to her toes.

 

She knew from prior conversations with Jughead that he wasn’t close to his father. In fact, Betty presumed he probably hated him, even if he never explicitly said so. Betty understood wholeheartedly; in her mind, his negative feelings toward his father were completely justified. But, at the same time, death was death. It was a reminder of reality, that things and opportunities and hope could be ripped away in a matter of seconds. She of all people, understood that.

 

She tapped out a quick message asking if he was okay. Of course, he wouldn’t be, but there wasn’t much else to say. Her fingers tingled as they hovered above her phone, anxiously waiting his response. It came rather quickly.

 

 **Jughead:** I don’t know. I have to go identify his body.

 

She typed out another message, but immediately deleted it. She tried something different, but nothing seemed right. How could it be? There was no manual on what to say when a parent died. Even though she dealt with death and grief on a near daily basis, granting condolences would never be an easy task. Especially to someone for whom she cared so much.

 

She settled on an apology, though she had nothing to be sorry for.

 

Betty finished her cleaning and then settled onto her couch with a cup of tea and _Arrested Development_ queued up on her Netflix like it was a normal evening. But it wasn’t. She tried to focus on the Bluth family’s ridiculous escapades, but her mind kept drifting back to Jughead and the man he was certainly identifying at that moment. The violently abusive alcoholic, the dangerous father figure who’d completely neglected his parental duties and deserted his son, just like a lot of men Betty had taken out in the past.

 

A little too much like those men. And one in particular.

 

The errant thought wormed its way into her brain and made its home there. _Could Jughead’s father and Forsythe Junior be one and the same?_

 

Betty shook her head furiously and rubbed at her eyes. The idea was ludicrous. She was just tired and worried about Jughead. There was no use dwelling on an idea that was so incredibly unlikely it was practically impossible.

 

And yet she couldn’t shake the paranoia. She remembered looking into Forsythe’s eyes, and noticing how familiar they’d been. She hadn’t thought anything of it, and yet-

 

She stood from the couch in a huff and made her way toward her home office, leaving her tea and show behind. She needed to look at her files, just to ease her thoughts. Just to _make sure_.

 

She was lucky she hadn’t shredded the information yet. She pulled the manila file labeled _F_ from its hiding spot behind her bookshelf and flipped it open. Immediately, his full name stared back at her from the apartment deed.

 

_Forsythe Pendleton Jones II._

 

Betty swallowed thickly and took a deep breath. _Okay, so they share a last name. Doesn’t mean it’s him._ With shaking hands, she flipped to the pages where the details of Forsythe’s various charges were outlined. The first charge was dated 1998.

 

_Assault, endangering the welfare of a child; domestic abuse. Laid by Gladys Jones, involving two unnamed minors._

 

Her head pounded as she stared at the words. They almost pulsed in the dim light. _No no no,_ she chanted in her head, _it’s just a coincidence. It’s not him. Lots of men_ —

 

One word, a location, caught her keen eye.

 

_Riverdale._

 

She collapsed to her knees.

 

\--

 

Jughead followed the directions given to him to get to the precinct across town. He took a few deep breaths before pulling open the large glass doors and walking in.

 

He was told to take the elevator to the third floor, make a left, then a right, then ask for Officer Samuels. That’s exactly what he did.

 

“Mr. Jones?” an older man in uniform asked before he could get the words out to the receptionist.

 

“Officer Samuels?” he asked, and the officer nodded.

 

“Right this way,” he said, gesturing down the hallway.

 

Jughead was led into a small room with a long metal table with two chairs. _So this is what an interrogation room actually looks like,_ he thought as he took mental notes for any future projects that would call for it.

 

“Can I ask why I’m here? Well, I know why I’m here, you said so on the phone, but why do _I_ need to identify him? I’m sure there’s someone else better suited to do it,” Jughead finally said after he sat in the uncomfortable chair after an even more uncomfortable silence.

 

Officer Samuels placed a file folder on the table; it was thick, pages overflowing from the sides.

 

“When was the last time you had contact with your father, Mr. Jones?”

 

“I haven’t seen him since I moved out of Riverdale, officer. That was well over ten years ago, probably closer to fifteen,” he answered, running his fingers through his hair. He wished he still wore that beanie; he could really use something familiar right about now.

 

“And you haven’t had contact with him since?”

 

“Maybe a call here or there for my birthday, but nothing in years.” He leaned back in the chair before resting his elbows on the able. “Why?”

 

“This isn’t exactly easy, Mr. Jones, but I need you to look at some pictures. I need you to tell me if this is your father, Forsythe Pendleton Jones, Jr. Can you do that?”

 

Jughead furrowed his brow and nodded, but he was not prepared for the onslaught of crime scene photos laid before him in a neat row.

 

“Fuck,” he murmured as he stared at the images. _Jesus fucking Christ._ _What the fuck did you get yourself into, dad?_

 

Four across, four down. Sixteen different photos. Images of his father’s corpse, of the room where it happened, of relevant setups and scenery. His body on a shiny autopsy table.

 

Jughead drew a breath in as the Officer continued to speak, trying to settle his nerves as he looked at each picture carefully.

 

He nodded once, very abruptly. “Yes, that’s my father,” he said, pointing to the most clear image. “What the hell happened to him?”

 

“His toxicology report came back with high levels of alcohol and traces of methadone.”

 

_What? Methadone? That doesn’t make sense._

 

“He was tied to a chair—sailor’s knots—and stabbed once in the throat and once below the belt.”

 

 _There’s no way._ Jughead sat, jaw dropped, but for an entirely different reason than the officer was probably thinking. He sat in silence staring at his hands while the officer detailed his father’s injuries.

 

“-whoever did this wanted to hurt him,” the officer said, and Jughead’s head snapped up.

 

“D-do you have any idea who could have done this?” he asked, his voice shaking.

 

“There was no physical evidence left at the scene when we arrived. No murder weapon.”

 

_Switchblade. The wound looks small enough._

 

“No trace of the drugs in the apartment. No needles or paraphernalia. No fibers, no hair, nothing. It may as well have been a ghost,” he chuckled dryly. “But let me assure you, Mr. Jones, we are looking into it. Though, I can’t say I can blame whoever did it. Your father was a very sick man.”

 

“What do you mean?” _How would you kill a child rapist and abuser?_ Betty’s voice rang in his head, suddenly all he could hear. He tried to focus on the officer’s words but his mind was a scattered disaster—pictures, words, memories swirled. Nothing made sense and yet, _everything did_.

 

_Betty. My Betty._

 

“—your father was wanted all across New York State for sexual assaults of minors and young women, gun and drug running, and murder.”

 

_Oh god, of course he was._

 

“When we looked back into his record, we had seen charges dating all the way back to—”

 

“1998,” he choked out.

 

“That’s correct. How’d you guess?”

 

“Not a guess. I lived it. My mom filed the charges, but dropped them when he promised to be better. He never got better, so she left.”

 

He had seen the report when he was young. He was one of two ‘unnamed minors’ mentioned in it, state law prohibiting his name to be included.

 

“I didn’t even know he left the trailer park. He seemed pretty content leading the Serpents then. I wonder what changed,” he muttered to himself.

 

Officer Samuels opened his mouth as if to speak, but didn’t. He gathered the photos Jughead had been staring at and placed them back in the file.

 

“That will be all, Mr. Jones. I’m sure someone will be contacting you soon with arrangements and details, or in your own time, you may contact his established emergency contact, Miss Penny Peabody. It appears that he _did_ have a will.”

 

Jughead stood up and shook the officer’s hand. He was led out and ushered back down the elevator. It wasn’t until he reached the bottom floor and walked back onto the street that he checked the time on his phone.

 

_8:14 PM - 4 messages waiting._

 

All of the messages were from Betty, and he hadn’t realized he’d been inside the precinct for over two hours. He tried to replay the entire interaction in his head, but only keywords stuck out to him: _wanted for murder, his girlfriend found the body and called, someone will be in contact_.

 

He pushed the thoughts from his head, climbed back into his car and made the drive home. He didn’t want to respond to Betty’s texts. He wasn’t ready to face her just yet.

 

\--

 

Betty wanted to disappear. She wanted to climb into her bed, fall asleep, and never wake up. She deserved it, having missed the obvious, vital information that had been right in front of her for weeks.

 

She’d found several more indicators in her files that informed her of the worst. Forsythe Pendleton Jones II, the man she had brutally murdered and mutilated, was her boyfriend’s dad. She had killed Jughead’s father. She had used his advice. She had effectively involved Jughead in his own dad’s murder.

 

She’d burrowed into her dark, warm, and usually safe bed, but the reality of the situation couldn’t be kept out. The truth repeated itself relentlessly in her head. The images slid through her mind like a slideshow. She imagined Jughead’s face, his perfect lips parting into a smile, then falling. His brow furrowed, his blue eyes turned dark and stormy. Devastated. That’s how he would surely look when he figured it out.

 

Because he would. He wasn’t stupid. If he was looking at his father’s body, receiving the details of his grisly death, he would put it together. He would recognize the application of his own words, his own writing. He would see what had happened and realize the only person who could have done it. In the death of his father, he would see who she truly was.

 

Behind closed lids in the darkness, her eyes pulsed. Her head, though stable in its resting place, spun. Her stomach churned. She clutched at her sides, trying to still her already immobile body. If she moved, she would surely throw up. If she didn’t keep her eyes shut, they would fill with tears. If she held her emotions at bay, they couldn’t overcome her.

 

But _Jughead._ She had to text him, reach out to him. She had to know what he knew. She had to know if her relationship was over, if her _life_ was over. She had to know if she was safe, or if the police were on the way to her apartment right now.

 

She had to know if he was okay.

 

She begrudgingly unwrapped an arm from her waist and reached out for her phone with a trembling hand. She felt it and snatched it back to her face, finally opening her eyes to look at its lit screen.

 

Two hours had passed and there was no message from Jughead. Her stomach flipped and she clenched her teeth as nausea threatened to overwhelm her. She tapped out a quick message and hit send without thinking. Panic immediately rose in her chest and moisture rushed to her eyes. She couldn’t stop the sob that came from her throat. Her fingers frantically moved over the keyboard, writing and impulsively sending several more messages.

 

 **Betty** : Please call me.

 **Betty** : I’m worried about you.

 **Betty** : Juggie, I know you’re upset right now and you probably don’t want to talk to anyone, but please just talk to me.

 **Betty** : Honey, please. I’m so sorry.

 

She threw her phone across the room, barely hearing the clattering it made when it collided with the wall.

 

She laid in her bed as time stood still.

 

\--

 

He plopped himself on his couch and made no effort to move, no effort to do anything once he was there. He ignored the buzzing in his pocket until he couldn’t anymore.

 

_7 messages waiting._

 

He slid his phone open, but didn’t click the thread for Betty. He saw a few messages from Archie. _Just checking in, gotta reschedule game night, got a thing with V and her family._

 

Game night was the _last_ thing on his mind.

 

He opened his conversation with Betty.

 

 **Betty** : Please call me.

 **Betty** : I’m worried about you.

 **Betty** : Juggie, I know you’re upset right now and you probably don’t want to talk to anyone, but please just talk to me.

 **Betty** : Honey, please. I’m so sorry.

 

“No,” he reassured himself. “It’s just a coincidence. There’s no way she’d do that. She couldn’t,” he reasoned. Not _his_ Betty Cooper.

 

 _His_ Betty Cooper was brilliant, gentle, cried watching sad movies over Skype with him, and laughed a little too hard after two glasses of wine.

 

He tried to convince himself it was a coincidence and pushed the thought from his mind.

 

Talking to Betty always eased his mind. It was something he’d learned early on in their relationship, something he’d finally come to grips with. She calmed him in a way he’d never experienced. There was something about her he couldn’t resist and didn’t want to resist.

 

How could he talk to her about this? How could he talk to her when she may have—

 

Jughead lay awake, staring at the stark white of his ceiling, watching the shadows pass and the branches dance in the wind. It was quiet. He normally hated the quiet, but tonight he needed it. He needed to sort through his thoughts and feelings.

 

He thought about the first time his father had hit him. Jughead had come home three minutes late from school and his dad had already been drunk. He could still hear the smack reverberating through the trailer. He was five years old.

 

He had convinced himself that this was just how his dad showed his love, until he saw him hit his mother at the age of ten. That’s when the first police report was filed, and that’s when he learned the difference between abuse and love.

 

He remembered the first time he ran away. It was only to his neighbor’s house, but it was quiet and warm and for once, he didn’t feel anxious. Until his father dragged him home by the ear and beat him black and blue.

 

He swore to himself he’d never go back, so he packed what he could into an old, worn duffle bag and left. He stayed at Archie’s house for a while, the drive-in when it was warm, the closet of the high school in the winter. He was tired of being a burden to people; being alone was better than getting hit again.

 

He hadn’t heard from his father since his twenty-first birthday nine years earlier. He ignored the call but listened to the voicemail that he assumed was supposed to mean ‘happy birthday, son’ but it was too slurred to decipher.

 

And now, he was gone. Dead. _Murdered_.

 

Jughead was the last Jones man left in the family. But he never really felt like a Jones.

 

As he stared at the ceiling, his eyes welled with tears. He wasn’t devastated by any means. His father was a bad man who, evidently, had only gotten worse over the years. He was upset for the life he never got to have. He had always held out hope that _maybe_ , one day things would mend themselves and he’d have what Archie had with Fred.

 

That hope was now officially gone.

 

There was something about the details that wouldn’t stop nagging him. The details the officer had given him, while small, were jarring. Methadone and alcohol. Stab wounds to the neck and groin. Sailor’s knots. The images he’d seen passed through his mind when he shot straight up in bed, grabbing his phone and scrolling back through his messages with Betty.

 

“Just enough to throw him off balance,” he read. “My father’s a Marine. The trophies.”

 

That was it. There was a doll, a little porcelain doll on the table next to his father’s lifeless corpse. It would have belonged to a child. He had detailed how men like that, men like the fictional Chester Brantworth, would keep trophies; he had always seen it in documentaries and television shows. He wrote about a doll, but it was just something his morbid and grotesque mind came up with, he didn’t think it would ever be real.

 

It hit him again.

 

His father was a man like that. Just like the man he described. And...

 

“No. No. No.” _No. No. No. No. No._

 

No one else would have known about the details, where things were placed in the room. No one else. After thinking about it, there were too many similarities for it to be a coincidence.

 

There was no one else. It was exactly as he described.

 

It had to have been Betty.

 

He had a nightmare that night, for the first time in years, panic radiating through his entire body. He woke with a jolt.

 

How was he going to talk to Betty again without thinking about it?

 

Over the course of the next few days, he received calls from the number that Officer Samuels had given him, some attorney who claimed to be the executor of his father’s will. As it turned out, he didn’t have much—a little bit of money that went to pay for the funeral, the remains of a burnt down apartment building, and whatever material possessions went to his girlfriend. And the trailer.

 

 _The trailer has been the in Jones family for generations, boy,_ he could hear his father say. What was he going to do with a double-wide in a trailer park? What would he do with his childhood home that he’d spent so long avoiding?

 

Betty had tried to reach out. She’d called dozens of times over the course of a few days and Jughead ignored her each time. He’d check his phone every few hours and there would more messages from her. She was worried about him.

 

He laughed to himself. _She_ was worried about _him?_ She was the one who—

 

The funeral was set to be in Riverdale the following week.

 

He’d spent days talking himself in and out of Betty’s possible involvement in his father’s murder. The happenstance of it all was not random; it wasn’t purely coincidence. He realized it after a few days of trying to convince himself otherwise. Jughead was ninety-eight percent certain there was only one person who could have murdered his father. That person was his companion, his confidant, the person he was sure he was falling in love with even if they hadn't met yet.

 

Betty Cooper.

 

And he had told her exactly how to do it.

 

He needed to hear it from her. Surely she would be able to explain herself. He knew he wasn’t close with his father. He knew, logically, that he never would be. But Betty had taken something from him that he didn’t know he needed until it was gone.

 

Hope.

 

 **Jughead** : We’re still on for tomorrow, right?

 **Jughead** : Greenacre Park Café. Noon.

 

\--

 

Betty was going to tell Jughead. It was the only viable option, the only honest, moral thing she could do at that point, and the only way she could inform him of something that had become apparent to her over the last couple of days of radio silence.

 

She loved him. She was in love with him. There was no doubt in her mind as she trudged through her monotonous day-to-day duties, a permanent rock in the bottom of her stomach and a crack in her heart. She loved him and she’d hurt him. And judging by the complete lack of communication, he knew everything.

 

She was miserable, utterly useless and without aim in her current state. She was simultaneously waiting for his inevitable break-up text or the police to show up at her door. Either one would be an ending. Either one would be what she deserved.

 

So, if he ever gave her a chance, she would tell him everything, even if it cost her. She owed it to him.

 

She was hanging up her lab coat in her office when her phone vibrated in her bag for the first time in days. Electricity and ice simultaneously flowed through her. She half wanted to chuck her phone again, add to the scratches and dents it had attained the other night, and half wanted to pick it up and absorb his every word.

 

Betty retrieved her phone from her bag, choosing the latter. She took a deep breath as she read the text on her screen.

 

He was asking her to meet, reiterating their date they’d planned at the beginning of the week. It was better than she hoped for, but she couldn’t allow herself to take it as a good news. He probably just wanted to see her arrested in person.

 

It didn’t matter. She’d meet him anyways. She had to tell him.

 

 **Betty** : I’ll be there.

 

\--

 

It was 11:45 and Jughead sat at a corner table of the café waiting impatiently for the blonde beauty who he’d only known through the veil of technology. He’d picked the corner table because it was the furthest away from everyone and everything. There would be no prying ears, no prying eyes, as it was surrounded by trees and a small recycling bin.

 

He sat at the round table, his leg bouncing so furiously up and down he thought he may sever a ligament. He was nervous for a few reasons. The first was that he was finally meeting Betty, but the second, and the most nerve wracking, was that he was meeting his father’s killer.

 

He’d waited days to contact her, trying to sort everything out. But in her absence, he missed her. It confused him; he didn’t know how he possibly could after realizing what she’d done, but he did. More than he cared to admit.

 

His knee finally went still when he spotted her. He’d recognize her anywhere. The shimmer of her honey blonde hair, down in waves, like he’d told her he likes on her. The brilliance of her eyes—surely reflecting the brilliance of her mind—tiny flecks of gold popping against the brightest green he’d ever seen.

 

She was different in person. Brighter. Softer. More beautiful than he could have ever imagined. His heart hammered in his chest with both terror and delight. He wanted to run away and pull her close all at once. He knew what she was capable of now. He didn’t have to wonder anymore, not like he had in the past.

 

He watched as she walked toward him, her skirt blowing in the warm breeze. The baby blue wrap skirt was tied perfectly at her side, pleated in the perfect spots. The white sweater tucked into it hugged her curves perfectly. It was more than Jughead could have imagined.

 

 _What a crazy juxtaposition,_ Jughead thought, laughing to himself. _She’s dressed like that, beautifully, nearly angelic, but…_ She stopped just short of the table and opened her mouth to speak.

 

“I hope green tea is alright,” Jughead said before she could speak. He’d guessed her order, but he wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure of anything when it came to her anymore.

 

“It’s perfect, Juggie, thank you.” She dipped her chin at the chair across from him and he nodded, indicating it was alright for her to sit down.

 

He could tell she was just as tense and unsure as he was.

 

Despite his inner turmoil, he wanted to reach out and touch her. But he resisted. He wasn’t sure how long he’d be able to. He opened his mouth to speak again, but everything he wanted to say was lost when he saw her hands shaking. He watched her flatten them against the table and take a deep breath. _She’s probably just as freaked out as I am._

 

“I need to tell you something and it’s not going to come out the way you want to hear it, but this is it.” She raised her hands from the table and pulled on her fingers, a nervous tic. She rolled her shoulders slightly and blew out a short breath before continuing.

 

“I love you, Jughead. I have fallen in love with you over the past few months, but I’ve been keeping a huge secret from you. I’m being honest now because I love you and you deserve to know the truth.”

 

Jughead figured her voice was quiet because of their near-ish proximity to the couple a few tables down, but what he didn’t expect was for her to confess her love for him. He wanted to roll his eyes, he wanted to brush it off and think that she was lying, but he had been feeling it, too. But how could he now? He was caught off guard as she suddenly leaned forward, gripping her paper cup with white knuckles. She seemed to steel herself before continuing.

 

“Since we’ve known each other, I’ve killed four men.”

 

A shiver ran through him. _Four men, Jesus Christ._ He sucked in a sharp breath and in his periphery, he saw her look up, probably to gauge his reaction. He could only fix his eyes on his coffee. He couldn’t look at her. His stomach was in his throat.

 

“They were four awful, vile men who deserved it, Jug. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have,” she whispered, defending herself. “The first was a guy I called the Sugarman. I don’t actually know his real name. He was a dealer who supplied young kids with drugs. He got teenagers hooked on meth, heroin, that jingle-jangle shit. I couldn’t have him feeding those addictions, so I pushed him in front of a train.” She grimaced as she admitted the last part, clenching her fingers into tight fists.

 

He could see how the admission was affecting her, even from a clouded view. He was trying not to give in to his knee-jerk reactions, tried not to grab her hand and soothe her with a reassuring swipe of his thumb across her knuckles. Instead, he took sobering breaths and played back her words. He vaguely remembered a new story about a suicide recently, but hadn’t thought anything of it. As morbid as it was, people killed themselves all the time.

 

He watched as she took another deep breath. She was trying to catch his eyes, but he couldn’t seem to make himself look at her for long.

 

She kept going. “The second man was Chic Smith. He was a strip club owner and a pimp. He coerced impoverished girls into thinking that the only way to a decent life was to strip, dance, and sell themselves. He held them as sex slaves, trapping them and stealing all their earnings. I had him overdose and later signed off on his autopsy.”

 

 _How convenient._ He couldn’t figure out why she was telling him all of this. Was it only because her latest victim was his father? How many would it have been if it hadn’t been FP? Would _he_ have been one of them?

 

Jughead’s leg continued to bounce as he tried to steady his mind by trying to sip his coffee. It had already gone cold. His heart was racing and he felt his chest getting tight. What did she gain from telling him this?

 

“The third was Malachi Velasquez. He was a campus predator. He assaulted and raped dozens of girls and got away with it. And then he burned down an apartment building and I just snapped. I hit him with my car, shot him and dumped him in the river. That one was… risky. I didn’t handle it well.”

 

 _That explains why she’d been acting so strangely_. She’d been distracted, off. But when he asked her about it, she brushed it off and blamed it on work, which he supposes could have been true, but he knew there was something more. He just couldn’t pinpoint it at the time.  

 

“And then… your dad. He owned the apartment building Malachi burned down. In the wreckage, we found the remains of eight girls. Cheryl reconstructed and analyzed their bones, and Jug, they were so young, and your dad kept them and used them for his own sick enjoyment. I told myself I would stop after Malachi, but when I researched your dad and when I saw him with those girls, I couldn’t let him go. But Jug, you have to believe me.” She stared at him with the most earnest look in her eyes, her hands twitching like she wanted to reach out to him. “I didn’t know he was your dad until after, I swear. Please believe me."

 

He wanted to. He wanted to believe she didn’t know. Jones was a common enough name. She didn’t know that he was named after his father. He never gave any indication of his birth name to her. He wasn’t sure why, but he believed her. She sounded too sad retelling him these stories for it not to be true.

 

He crossed his arms over his chest and took a deep breath, trying not to show how terrified he was of her in that moment.

 

For months, he’d gotten to know this woman. She was delicate and sweet and funny, and now all he could think to do was run. But he knew she had more to say. He could tell.

 

“Jug, I need you to know that I don’t do these things because I want to. I don’t kill people because I like it. I do it because someone has to. They walk around and hurt people and get away with everything because the system is so fucked up and it’s just not fair. I do it because I need to fix it. I need to balance the scales.”

 

She attempted to reach out to him then, maybe in comfort, he wasn’t sure, but he shied away. He was certain he didn’t want her hands on him at this point. He pulled his coffee cup away, both hands firmly grasping it in front of his mouth, like a toddler with a bottle, willing himself to take a sip, to do anything.

 

If he was being honest, all he wanted to do was cry. _It’s all been a lie_ , he thought to himself. _Archie was right._ He could feel the pressure behind his eyes building. But he wasn’t sure which he was more afraid of: her, or the fact that he still thought she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

 

“I am so sorry, Juggie. I am sorry you had to get mixed up in this. I am sorry your dad was one of those men and I’m sorry I was the one to do it. I’m sorry I’m not the girl you thought I was. I’m sorry I’m not normal. I’m sorry that this hurts you, because that was never my intention. All I ever wanted to do was help people and now I’m hurting the person I love and I’m _sorry_.”

 

He heard her voice crack and he was finally able to look at her. He could see the truth swirling in the brilliant green of her eyes, somehow made brighter in her sadness. _She really did love him._

 

He held her gaze, everything she said hitting him all at once. Her face fell as he stared at her, her tears finally spilling to her cheeks, but he wasn’t sure what to make of it. Were they carefully crafted, placed in that exact moment for dramatic effect? Or were they genuine?

 

Jughead sat and watched as she tried to wipe away the tears that continued to stream. He toyed absentmindedly with the lid of his cup. It was a lot of information all at once, but the nagging question remained.

 

“Why are you telling me all of this?” His voice was quiet, measured. “Because you were afraid of getting caught? Or because it was my dad?”

 

She frowned and new tears welled in her eyes. “Jughead, there is no calculated reason why I’m sharing this with you. I don’t care about getting caught anymore. I only care about you knowing the truth. I couldn’t continue on with this, with _us_ , without you knowing.

 

“I know this ruins everything, but I needed you to know. And you can do whatever you want with this information. Take it to the cops, write it in your book, I don’t care. Whatever is best for you. Whatever makes all of this better.” She spoke fast, frantically. Her words nearly jumbled together in her effort to spit them all out at once, like if she didn’t they’d drown her.

 

“You used my book against me. You realize that? Even if I did go to the police, I’d be implicating myself.” The words came out harsher than he wanted to, but it was true. “I wrote my own father’s murder!”

 

“I didn’t mean to, Jug, I didn’t know,” she choked out in a watery sob, shrinking into herself. She wrapped her arms around her waist. Her clenched fists rested stiffly at her hips.

 

Jughead looked around, finding the area had cleared out considerably. He took another deep breath as he thought about how to proceed.

 

His thoughts were jarring, the most prominent being that he hated seeing her cry. That should not be the first thought in his mind right now. Not in light of all of the information he’d gotten in the past hour.

 

They sat in relative silence for too long. The only sounds were her sniffling and his fingers tapping fervently against his now empty cup. Jughead, being the writer he was, found the words first and forced himself to finally speak. “What now?”

 

She sighed and blinked up at him. “That’s up to you, Juggie.”

 

 _That’s up to you_ . That was the problem. Jughead had no idea what to make of his current situation. He’d never thought he’d be face to face with probably the best _and worst_ thing that’s ever happened to him. What was he supposed to do?

 

He didn’t want to give up the last few months. They’d been wonderful, extraordinary even. But he couldn’t ignore the very blatant and obvious fact that she had lied to him the entire time he’d known her. It wasn’t something small, like she said she liked strawberries but secretly hated them. It was much bigger than that. It was worlds bigger.

 

_Good going, idiot. The first time you’re falling in love and she turns out to be a serial killer._

 

He wasn’t thinking rationally at that moment, he knew that much. He knew he would never be able to give her an answer that he was confident in. He needed time. Time to think, time to process, time to himself.

 

“I just…” He breathed deeply, standing up and placing his hands firmly on the table “I need time.”

 

He walked away from her, leaving her slack-jawed and in tears at the café in Greenacre Park. He wasn’t sure where he was going, or what he was going to do when he got there, but he couldn’t do it with her doe eyes staring at him, waiting for an answer he wasn’t prepared to give.

.

.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, they met! what did you think?! how do you guys feel? what do you guys think is still to come? let us know! we _love_ to hear from you all. Seriously, it makes us wicked happy. :)


	7. Reflections

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back, we're glad you're still here! No, seriously, we are. We are still so overwhelmed by the positive response this has been getting and we are so grateful! We hope you all had a wonderful holiday and are enjoying/have enjoyed some much needed rest and/or time off!
> 
> So, we know you guys had some feelings at the end of the last chapter, so hopefully this one will ease some of that tension for you. It's a personal favorite of mine [hey--cyd here] and I hope you all enjoy it, as well.
> 
> Special thank, as always, to our amazing beta's, Lyss and Heather. We love you and this would be a total train wreck without you both.

* * *

* * *

 

Jughead couldn’t go home yet. He spent the following hours wandering the streets, headphones securely in his ears, trying to avoid thinking about the conversation he just had. He tried to flood his mind with nonsense, anything less serious than the elephant that had taken up residence in his mind.

 

The music filtering through did its job for a short while, until a string of love songs bombarded him with images of Betty. He nearly stopped in his tracks as he recalled the photos she’d sent, her gentle reassurances, their Skype dates—everything all at once. He pulled the headphones from his ears by the wires and shoved them in his pocket without a second thought.

 

He let the white noise of the city take over from there as he made his way back home.

 

 _Jesus fucking Christ. What am I supposed to do now?_ He dug the heels of his palms into his eyes, trying to block out every image of her, of the crime scene photos, of the world around him.

 

He couldn’t even dive into his writing; it was officially tainted because of her. He would probably stop writing it all together now—months of work, down the drain.

 

He walked through the door and slammed it shut, bolting the locks and throwing his jacket to the ground. He looked aimlessly into the kitchen cabinets, not entirely sure if he was actually looking for something or slamming doors in lieu of hitting a punching bag.

 

He shuffled to his bedroom and pulled his clothes off, not paying any mind to where they landed once they were peeled from his body. He always had the most clarity under the constant pressure of his shower head. Maybe it would organize his thoughts tonight, too. He hopped in the shower, hoping it would help quell his growing headache and his aching heart.

 

_Think, Jones, think. So, she’s killed people. That doesn’t mean that Archie was right. Historically, Archie is wrong about this kind of shit. You can’t very well ask him. How would that go? ‘Hey, Arch. Remember that girl. Yeah, well, she’s killed people so like, you were right about people lying about themselves on the internet.’_

 

Jughead laughed without humor as he lathered his hair with shampoo for a second time.

 

 _Fucking Christ. How could I be so blind?_ Jughead had made a huge point to show Archie how well he knew Betty. And he thought that he did. But what he still couldn’t grasp was how he let himself care so much so quickly for someone. This was the exact reason why he kept to himself, why he never let his guard down. _How the fuck did I let this happen?_

 

He slammed his palms against the slick tile of the shower, trying his best to get out his frustrations. He took a deep breath, not wanting to damage the walls—or his hands. His mind drifted back to her.

 

_That doesn’t mean the rest of it wasn’t real. You can’t fake everything in life, right? Sure, she’s careful and calculated, but..._

 

He let himself remember his favorite parts about her.

 

 _She’s charming. She’s fucking brilliant. Goddammit, she’s the most gorgeous person to ever acknowledge your existence. Her reasons are perfectly logical if you think about it._ He shook the last thought from his head. Was there ever really a justification for murder? Even of drug dealers, sex traffickers, and a few predators?

 

He remembered his own words: _people like that don’t deserve any mercy._ The sentiment was still true, even if now it applied to his own flesh and blood. Maybe if he’d known about his father’s crimes, he would have been the one to kill him. He certainly hated him enough. He was always so afraid of ending up like him, but now he was certain he never would. He could never be that depraved.

 

Her words— _I love you_ —replayed in his mind, a record stuck on repeat. He saw it in her eyes, heard it in her voice. She loved him. That wasn’t something she could manufacture.

 

_Could she?_

 

He thought he was falling for her, but she’d thrown it all into disarray, and now he questioned everything. There was a small voice in the back of his head that wouldn’t relent. _She’s still your Betty, Jughead._

 

He stood with his back to the water, letting it rain down and ease his tense muscles. His palms were flat against the tile again as he worked to catch his breath and quiet his racing mind.

 

_Your Betty? How can she be yours when you don’t even fucking know her?_

 

He dried off, grabbed the closest pajamas he could find, and threw himself unceremoniously into bed. He didn’t care that it wasn’t even six o’clock yet. He didn’t care that he hadn’t eaten. He wasn’t hungry anyway.

 

_It’s only one part of her. The other parts, the better parts, are just as real and far more substantial. Are you really going to give that up?_

 

He grabbed his cell phone but there was nothing waiting for him besides a black screen. She was giving him the time and space he needed, even if it had only been a few hours. He resisted the urge to text her. She had been his go-to person when he needed to talk through his problems, but when she was the problem, that couldn’t exactly work out.

 

He thought about calling Officer Samuels, telling him, but the thought of her behind bars did terrible things to his imagination. She didn’t belong there. She belonged in her suite. She belonged somewhere beautiful, away from the horrors of New York. She belonged somewhere she didn’t need to resort to killing people.

 

He turned off his cell phone and let his eyes drift closed. He would figure it out eventually, but for now, he needed to sleep on it. It was quite possibly the hardest decision he would ever have to make.

 

_Was love enough?_

 

He woke up in the morning, drenched in a cold sweat, feeling like he’d only spent an hour actually sleeping. Images had danced behind his eyelids—images of his father’s dead body, of Betty with the knife in her hand, of her in an orange jumpsuit locked in a cell, of them hand in hand walking down the street.

 

It was weird, feeling like an outsider in his own life, but that was the only way he could describe his current headspace. He knew the decision wasn’t going to be easy, but he didn’t think it would be this hard either. Before he had concrete proof of Betty’s indiscretions, he was going to ask if she’d come with him to Riverdale to his father’s funeral.

 

He wasn’t sure he’d be able to do it by himself. He needed someone there with him, someone who’d be able to comfort him in a way no one else had. It had been almost twenty-four hours since he’d spoken to her and he hated how it made him feel.

 

He plopped a pillow over his face and screamed until he had no air left in his lungs. Then he took a deep breath and did it again. He knew it wouldn’t help anything, but it was cathartic nevertheless.

 

Despite everything, he missed her. They hadn’t said goodbye or goodnight. There was no _good morning, handsome_ text waiting for him. Part of him was hoping there would be. It was the same part of him that saw past his fear and anger and into the emerald abyss he’d come to admire, that he’d come to adore.

 

She had become part of his daily life. He was so wrapped up in the idea of them finally being together that the possibility of something getting in their way wasn’t even a blip on his radar. He knew her, really _knew_ her, just as she knew him. He’d confided in her, told her things he’d never told Archie, things he barely even let himself think about, let alone talk about.

 

How could someone who believed in him so fiercely do such terrible, unspeakable things? He felt like their entire relationship was a lie. Could he even call it a relationship anymore? Was it really ever one to begin with?

 

 _Maybe Archie was right_ , he thought again. _Maybe it was all an act. Maybe she built you up just to rip you down._ But there was still that little voice in the back of his head that tried to reassure him that she was still _his_ Betty.

 

She’d become his best friend, and he didn’t realize how heavily he depended on that friendship until he couldn’t anymore. She’d been his inspiration, what got him through the monotony of his boring, mundane life. She’d kept him upright, stable, and he honestly didn’t know how he’d fare without that unwavering support.

 

He tried to manage, but it was torture. He went the entire next day with his phone still off. He avoided his computer. He barely even left his bed, afraid that the world outside had flipped upside down. He didn’t feel right, it was like a part of him was missing.

 

 _She_ was missing.

 

He let himself wallow until the gentle knock he’d been ignoring turned to pounding. Obnoxiously loud, floor shaking pounding. Only one person he knew demanded that kind of attention. He threw the comforter off his legs and stepped shakily onto the floor.

 

He shuffled his way to the front door, unlatched the bolts and threw it open before he checked the peephole. A raven-haired woman marched her way in without so much as a hello before turning around to take him in.

 

“Sure, V. Come on in,” he muttered as he closed the door behind her.

 

“Where have you been?” Her shrill voice was the first directed at him since he’d left Betty at the cafe, and it hurt his eardrums. “Archie and I have been trying to call you but your phone is going straight to voicemail.”

 

“Yeah, that’s because it’s off. Call it a self-imposed sequestering.” He walked into the kitchen and brewed a fresh pot of coffee, bringing some to Veronica, as well.

 

Over the years, Jughead had learned to tolerate Veronica. She was, after all, his best friend’s wife. If she was important to Archie, she was important to Jughead, too.

 

Jughead settled onto the couch and Veronica made herself right at home.

 

“So, what’s wrong?” she asked without preamble.

 

“Why does something have to be wrong?”

 

“Jug. I don’t know who you think you’re fooling, but _clearly_ something is up.”

 

“What, Veronica? Just because I’m not at your beck and call, something has to be wrong?” He huffed, rolling his eyes.

 

“You’re proving my point,” she said pointedly, crossing her arms over her chest.

 

 _She just doesn’t stop._ He resigned himself to the conversation. Clearly she wasn’t going anywhere.

 

“I just… it’s um,” he stumbled over his words. He couldn’t flat out tell Veronica about Betty’s indiscretions; he had to be clever. “There’s this unexpected plot twist with the main character of my new book. I’m just trying to sort it out without distraction. That’s all.”

 

Veronica raised her perfectly manicured eyebrows. “Right. So, this plot point.” She paused and took a sip of coffee. “Tell me about it. What’s got you so twisted over it?” Another sip. “You look like shit, by the way.”

 

Jughead rolled his eyes. _Leave it to Veronica to point out the painstakingly obvious_. “There’s this character, who may or may not have feelings for the main character, Deirdre. But he found out that’s she’s done some pretty terrible things. And he isn’t sure what he’s supposed to do now that he knows.”

 

By the look on Veronica’s face, he could tell she didn’t believe him. “He’s stuck between the reality of possible consequences and the fact that she’s told him she loves him. Does he risk it and go for love, or does he let logic and rationale take over and try to forget about her?”

 

Veronica pursed her lips and traced the rim of her mug blindly. “Well, seeing as this is a very _hypotheti _cal_ , _clearly fictional situation,” she stressed the words skeptically, “I say he goes for it with Deirdre. Worst case scenario, she gets caught and thrown in jail and he has to move on anyway.”

 

Jughead slumped further into the couch.

 

“But best case scenario, they live happily ever after. Isn’t that what everyone is looking for? Hypothetically, of course.”

 

She placed the half-empty mug onto the coffee table and stood up quickly. He followed suit, picking up her mug and placing it into the kitchen sink.

 

“Well, now that I know you’re fine, and have gifted some solid gold advice, I can go. We just wanted to make sure you were still alive. Dinner next week at our place?” Veronica touched the pearls around her neck and stared at him pointedly with her dark eyes, waiting for his answer.

 

“Yeah, shouldn’t be a problem. See you then. And just a forewarning, I’m going to be out of town for a few days, so if don’t answer, that’s why.”

 

She opened her mouth as if she was going to speak, then didn’t. She simply nodded and let herself out. Just as quickly as she’d arrived, she was gone.

 

He hadn’t told Veronica or Archie about his father’s death. He wasn’t entirely sure how. He knew they would make a fuss about it, knew they’d insist on going with him to the funeral. He didn’t want that. His father didn’t deserve that. It was bad enough that he had to return to his hometown. He wasn’t part of the planning process, was simply told when and where to show up and that if he wanted to speak, he could.

 

 _Hard pass_ , he thought when his father’s girlfriend had mentioned it. He had nothing good to say about him, and he was sure nothing good had ever come from his existence.

 

He took a minute to think on what Veronica said. He was sure she didn’t believe him when he said it was for his book, but if that was the case, she thankfully didn’t say anything.

 

“Best case scenario, they live happily ever after,” he mused aloud to himself.

 

He had thought about a future with Betty. Sure, it had only been six months, but when he thought about what he wanted in life, she was standing by his side. Maybe Veronica had a point. He was so focused on what had happened that he wasn’t thinking of what could be.

 

Yes, she’d murdered people, but to her credit, they were _bad_ people. He had said it himself, someone like that—like his father—didn’t deserve mercy.

 

He knew Betty and he knew there was more to her than this one part. He knew that she missed her sister, as much as she didn’t want to admit it; that despite her best efforts, she still wasn’t over the effects of her mother’s toxic voice in her head telling her she wasn’t enough. He knew she wrinkled her nose before she laughed, and that she had freckles in places most people couldn’t see. She was brilliant and resourceful and _evidently_ murderous.

 

But that last fact didn’t negate the others. It added to her complexity. It added to the reasons why he was falling in love with her. But now he knew she was in love with him, too. And that, he thought, was what terrified him most. He desperately needed to speak to her.

 

There was a lot he wanted to say to her; more thoughts than he could keep track of filtered through the crevices of his mind. He needed to tell her; he hoped she’d give him the chance to.

 

 **Jughead** : Come with me to his funeral?

 **Jughead** : I don’t think I can do it alone.

 

\--

 

Betty was alarmed when Jughead finally texted her two days after their tumultuous conversation in the corner of Greenacre Park Cafe. He had walked away that day, shoulders slumped from the entire weight of the world she’d thrown at him. She’d watched his figure grow smaller as her chest fissured. She had bared her entire story, her entire soul to him, and she was positive it had marked the end of their relationship. So, she hadn’t expected him to speak to her ever again.

 

Then he went and invited her to his father’s funeral.

 

She almost said no; the sick irony of her presence at Forsythe’s funeral was glaringly apparent. But she ultimately decided that it didn’t matter—she wouldn’t be attending the funeral for the dead man’s sake. She would do it for his son.

 

If Jughead, for whatever reason, wanted her there, then she would go. She would do anything for him at this point.

 

He had asked if they could use her car, since his wouldn’t be finished at the mechanic until after the funeral. She insisted the train would suffice, but Jughead claimed it was simply easier to drive. She could tell it was just a convenient excuse. Understandably, he had some things to say and in her car, they would have their much-needed privacy.

 

Betty drove in the heavy silence, preparing herself for the onslaught. Jughead sat next to her in the passenger seat, twisting his hands in his lap. He didn’t speak until they had passed the limits of the city.

 

“Thanks for coming with me,” he said quietly, his voice constricted. “I didn’t think you’d want to after it look me so long to give you an answer, even though I technically haven’t even done that yet.”

 

 _Didn’t think she’d want to?_ Betty fought to keep her face neutral as he kept talking. She didn’t think _he’d_ want to.

 

“I’ve replayed everything you said more times than I can count and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to get over it.”

 

Betty flinched but kept her eyes trained on the road. She sucked a breath through her lips quietly, prepared to hear his rejection. She was ready for this, she had assumed it was coming. The only thing she didn’t understand was why he had asked her to go with him to Riverdale if he was just going to break up with her on the ride there.

 

She braced herself, gripping the steering wheel tightly before she allowed herself to look over at him. As she took in his somber face, the downturned shape of his lips and hooded eyes, she felt like a vice grip had been tightened around her chest.

 

She knew it was coming, she’d been ready to hear it. But now, as he was about to utter the words, she wanted to stop him, interrupt him. Beg him to reconsider. Tell him she loved him.

 

Or just bail out the door of the car. Anything would hurt less than what he was about to say.

 

“I know it’s overwhelming to have someone know every part of you. It’s like you’re completely exposed and they can use that information against you.” She heard his deep breath before he continued. “But you don’t do that. Sometimes I think you know me better than I know myself. You know when I’m going to spiral into self-doubt, you know when I need a pick me up after an uninspiring day, you just know. And I don’t know how you do it, but you always seem to make things better—make _me_ better.”

 

Betty tore her eyes from the road again to look at Jughead. He was still staring at his hands as they picked at the lint on his pants.

 

“I didn’t know how I felt when the officer told me my dad died. I hadn’t spoken to him in years, hadn’t even really thought about him. I mean, of course no one likes to hear that a family member died, but I’m not most people, and he wasn’t even really family anymore,” he said, his voice tinged with sadness.

 

“But then, seeing the pictures… the thought of you anywhere close to him made me sick. It was a shock that you did what you did, but it upset me more that you’d intentionally put yourself in his path. What if it hadn’t gone as you—well, I guess I—planned? What if he hurt you?”

 

Betty, in her shock and fear, had to quell a laugh that bubbled up her throat. Not in her wildest dreams did she imagine Jughead would feel worried for her. Scared of her, yes. Angry, for sure. Betrayed, definitely. But not _worried._

 

“It was just a lot of information all at once, and I’m sure I’m still not even done processing it, but…”

 

He didn’t speak for a long moment, so long that apprehension spread like a fog in Betty’s stomach. Her fingers tapped nervously as the silence continued. He blew out a long breath.

 

“It figures the first woman I actually fall in love with would be a serial killer.”

 

Betty blinked and peeled her car to the right, pulling to a stop on the shoulder. She turned in her seat to fully take in Jughead’s expression. A myriad of emotions flashed on his face, but a disbelieving adoration was the most prominent. She fought the intense urge to reach out and take his hand.

 

“But that isn’t all you are. You are smart and genuine and wonderful.” He took a deep breath and smiled that familiar warm grin. The grin she had missed. “You’re still the Betty I fell in love with, and if this,” he said, gesturing between them, “is something you want to pursue, I’m still in.”

 

He stared at her expectantly, his eyes wide, the clearest blue she’d ever seen. She opened her mouth to respond but the words wouldn’t come out. She didn’t know what to say, the scenario far beyond her imagination.

 

“Juggie, I-”

 

“I don’t want to change any part of you, Betty—good, bad or homicidal. But of course, I mean, I’d rather you not kill people because it’s, you know, morally ambiguous and risky and extremely illegal. But if you have to, please just don’t tell me. And don’t ask for my suggestions.” His lips quirked and a short laugh burst from his mouth.

 

She blinked rapidly and continued to stare at him in silence. He didn’t want to change her? He didn’t want to demand she be a moral, upstanding citizen? He didn’t want her to swear she would never kill again? She mused quickly in her head, her thoughts an incomprehensible tangle. _How did I find this guy?_ She thought to herself. _Out of all the people on the internet, I stumbled across him._

 

She stammered and then settled for nodding mutely, still unable to organize and voice her thoughts.

 

He seemed to understand she was at a loss for words because he gave her a gentle smile, but his eyes turned serious.

 

“I need you to say you won’t involve me anymore, Betty. I can try to understand why you do what you do, but I can’t be a part of it any more than I already am. My dad… he was an awful man, but when I think about what you had me do, that you had me…” he sighs deeply, “...write out his death… that’s the hardest thing to come to terms with.”

 

She felt slightly ill as she responded, finally finding her voice. “Juggie, I promise I had _no idea_ he was your father when I asked you to write that. I never would have knowingly put you in that position. And I swear to you that I’m going to try to put this behind me, at least for a while. I’ll never drag you into another one of my plans again.” She dipped her head to peer down at her hands. “I’m sorry. I know I’ll be apologizing for the rest of my life, but I really am sorry.”

 

He nodded his head, but he looked deep in thought. Like he wanted to say so much but he didn’t know exactly how.

 

“There isn’t exactly a guideline about how to handle something like this. But I’m willing to navigate it if you are,” he offered when he finally spoke.

 

He was _willing._ To find a common ground in their relationship. Their fragile, established by the internet, natural and beautiful relationship.

 

“What do you say, baby?”

 

She felt her heart burst, and she nodded.

 

\--

 

The front row was saved for family, but Jughead couldn’t bring himself to sit there. The casket at the front of the only funeral parlor in Riverdale was nice enough, but the first thought that bubbled in his mind was that his father didn’t deserve something so beautiful.

 

They stayed at the back, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. Jughead knew he had the right to be there—it was his father, after all—but Betty stood out, a beacon of light among the cracked leather jackets. He didn’t recognize many people. The few he did recognize, he couldn’t remember their names. Part of him wondered if the news had traveled to wherever his mother and sister were, but he doubted it.

 

A woman who had definitely seen better days stood at the podium. Her hair was down but greasy and in desperate need of a cut. Her shoulders were covered in a jacket that was at least three sizes too big for her tiny frame and sporting the snake he’d recognized from his childhood.

 

She sniffled and wiped away tears as she waited for everyone to be seated—all twelve people. Betty and Jughead took a seat at the back, but with the lack of attendees, they had a clear view of everything.

 

“Thank you all for coming,” the woman started, scanning the room and stopping directly on them. “I’m Penny, FP’s girlfriend.”

 

Jughead watched as she fidgeted with the tissue in her hand, in what seemed to be an attempt to quell her nerves. He watched as her eyes landed on the woman next to him. They flashed with something, but it was gone just as quickly as it was there.

 

“FP was the most… he was a great man. He was a natural leader, a force to be reckoned with, the love of my life. He was a wonderful father figure to my nephew, was there for him growing up, even showed him the ropes when it came time for it.”

 

A bubble of hot rage filled Betty’s chest like an inflated balloon, popping at the same time a humourless laugh dripped from Jughead’s mouth.

 

 _He wouldn’t know what being a father was if it hit him over the head_ , Jughead thought.

 

On pure instinct, Betty wove her hand into Jughead’s hanging between them.

 

He felt her hand slip into his, and his moment of anger at Penny’s words quickly melted into something else.

 

Her heart clenched as he twisted his palm and intertwined their fingers. The warmth of his larger hand enveloped hers as he squeezed it in comfort. A silent _thank you._

 

Her touch was electric, her hand smooth and warm; everything he didn’t know he needed.

 

She looked up at him. His eyes were calm despite the sadness she could see behind them and she smiled gently. She focused on their intimate grip, she let it steady her nerves, ground her in the awkward surroundings. With his hand in hers, she felt secure.

 

Penny continued with her eulogy. Every blatant lie and hurtful word felt like a knife to his stomach, like they were directed at him and him alone.

 

“If anyone else would like to say a few words,” Penny offered sullenly as she walked away from the front of the room. She stole one last glance at FP’s body before promptly bursting into tears again. She sat alone in the front row, but a man behind her rubbed at her shoulder. Jughead’s gut twisted. She didn’t deserve to be comforted.

 

No one else volunteered. He had half a mind to say some things to debunk Penny’s bullshit, but he resisted, not wanting to cause a scene. FP wasn’t worth the fight it would surely start.

 

They stayed at the back of the room, waiting for everyone to file out when Penny approached them.

 

Betty raised her head as she drew closer, switching into defense mode. Her body froze when Penny stopped in front of them.

 

“Well, well, well. So, the heir returns to Riverdale,” Penny said, the corner of her lip turning up.

 

Betty felt Jughead’s muscles flinch under her hands and she pulled his arm closer still. Despite the accusatory tone Penny used, Jughead’s response was almost amicable.

 

“It was a nice service, Penny. Thanks for organizing it.”

 

Betty grimaced. Jughead was far better than her. He was thanking Penny? _Thanking her for what?_ Betty would sooner spit in her face.

 

“That’s what you have to say for yourself after you _abandoned_ your father. You abandoned your family!”

 

 _He didn’t have a family to abandon, you bitch,_ Betty thought to herself. She bit her lip harshly to keep from yelling the thought out loud, and her free hand clenched into an involuntarily fist. A familiar feeling rose in her chest.

 

“I’m sorry, what?!”

 

“You heard me. You left for New York to go to your fancy college and write books. You should have been here, in your rightful place with the Serpents.”

 

Betty wanted to reach up and slap her across the face, slap the words right out of her mouth before she could throw them in Jughead’s face. She wanted wrap her fingers around her throat and--

 

“--your fancy doctor girlfriend here.” Her hideous gaze fell to Betty. She felt her blood run cold, but held eye contact.

 

 _So, she did recognize me._ Betty’s lips twitched upward slightly.

 

“She had nothing to do with me leaving and you know it.”

 

Betty held Penny’s cold, dead, blue eyes until they flicked away, back to Jughead. She smirked and gripped his arm tighter. She wasn’t afraid of this woman; she just wanted to protect Jughead.

 

But he was doing a fine job on his own. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, we need to leave,” he snapped at her, pulling Betty closer. He laid his free hand on her lower back to gently push her away and followed close behind.

 

“She fucking knows you?” he whispered close to her ear once they were free of the building.

 

“Remember the family member I had to deal with on Monday?” Betty asked pointing back toward the building.

 

“Did you speak to her?” Jughead’s eyes were wide and hard, fearful.

 

Betty shook her head. “No, I was just there to help another doctor, in case she… got out of hand. She must have recognized me.”

 

Betty watched as Jughead ran his hand through his dark hair and then raked it back down his face.

 

“Honey, don’t worry about her,” Betty murmured, placing her hand on his face lightly, stroking his cheekbones. “She’s just angry and hysterical. Completely unstable.”

 

Jughead nodded and leaned into her hand, sighing. “What if she made the connection between you and--”

 

There was no way. Betty would bet her life on it, or better yet, Penny’s.

 

“There’s no connection to make,” she assured him. She had left the scene clean. She knew the police had found nothing. It had been the cleanest kill yet.

 

“Okay,” he breathed, and pulled Betty into his arms. “Okay.”

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooooo? Tell us what you think, leave us some love on here, or on the tumbles, or the discord. We love to hear from you guys. It makes us so happy. Honestly, we flail. It's kind of hilarious.


	8. Homecoming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome back!  
> How are we all feeling this fine Wednesday?  
> If you haven't noticed, there are now 11 chapters to this fic!  
> We know, we know, such torture we're putting you through.  
> We couldn't help it...our hands slipped... _a lot_. :)

* * *

* * *

 

 

As Jughead drove Betty’s car around the old, familiar streets of Riverdale, he noticed that things had been updated, but only slightly. The Riverdale Register was still somehow standing, as was the general store he remembered getting ice cream from with Fred and Archie. He drove down Elm Street, slowing as he passed the Andrews’ house, Fred’s truck in the driveway. _I have to visit him soon_.

 

As they drove, Jughead pointed out places that changed his life. Riverdale High. The Twilight Drive-in. Pop’s Chock’Lit Shoppe. The pang of hunger hit him suddenly and all at once. He hadn’t craved Pop’s in years. He learned to forget it—wanting nothing more to do with the town that abandoned him—long before he had the chance to leave it.

 

“Are you hungry?” He turned to look at Betty. She was watching out the window as the town passed by.

 

“Yeah, actually. We left so early this morning, I didn’t eat breakfast.”

 

“I was hoping you’d say that.” He pulled the car into the shoulder, threw it in park, and turned to face Betty. “Betty Cooper. Have a lunch date with me. We’re overdue.”

 

The smile that spread across her face nearly took the air from his lungs.

 

He got back on the road and made his way around to Pop’s. Parking was no trouble—the lot was emptier than he would have imagined for lunch time. He took a deep breath and got out of the car, walked to Betty’s side, and opened the door for her. They were halfway to the door when he gripped her arm and pulled her back.

 

“What’s up, Jug?”

 

He snaked his arms around her waist and hoisted her up into a twirling hug. Her arms came around his neck and he could hear her laugh in the wind. He placed her back down gently, letting his fingers glide up her torso as he did. Her hands rested on his shoulders and their eyes connected. _Yeah, man. You’re definitely in love with her._

 

They walked hand in hand into the diner, the bell overhead signalling his homecoming. He took a deep breath. _Smells like home._

 

“As I live and breath, Jughead Jones? Is that you?” Jughead turned to the direction of the voice and a smile burst to his lips.

 

“Pop!”

 

The men embraced and when Jughead turned back to look at Betty, her hands were over her heart, an adorable smile on her lips.

 

“Who do we have here?” Pop raised an eyebrow at Jughead. He’d never been there with a girl. Ever.

 

“Pop Tate, this is my girlfriend Betty Cooper. Betty, this is Pop.”

 

The pair smiled at each other and shook hands, exchanging pleasantries, before Pop looked back to Jughead.

 

“The usual?”

 

“After almost fifteen years you remember my usual?”

 

“Jug, you were here nearly every day for the better part of ten years. Of course, I remember.”

 

“Make it two,” Jughead called to Pop before leading Betty to his favorite booth that was thankfully unoccupied.

 

Jughead sighed, relief and excitement flooding him all at once. He still wasn’t entirely sure how it felt to be back in Riverdale.

 

He reached for Betty’s hand across the table and stroked his thumb over her knuckles. Now that they’d touched, he didn’t want to let her go. She didn’t seem to mind, and if she did, she didn’t say anything.

 

“Well, you did say you wanted to hold my hand,” she winked at him and he blushed at her recall.

 

They sat in a comfortable silence until Pop came by and placed two plates and two milkshakes in front of them. He winked at Jughead and was back on his way.

 

Betty tilted her head to the side, eyeballing the food in front of her.

 

They were about halfway through their meal when Jughead put his burger down and wiped his face.

 

“Okay. So, it’s my turn to confess something,” Jughead said with mischief behind his eyes.

 

Betty slowly lowered the french fry she was about to bite into back to her plate. She blinked at him. He could see the confusion painted across her face. She carefully dusted the crumbs from her fingers and stared, waiting for him to speak again.

 

“I’ve been keeping something from you, too,” he admitted. He cast his eyes down in an attempt to create the illusion he was about to reveal a terrible secret.

 

Jughead waited, taking a sip from his milkshake slowly.

 

“Juggie?”

 

“Remember when you said you found that great crime novel at the thrift store and you liked it because it was well researched?”

 

“Yeah….”

 

“I wrote it. Tunny Wilkins is me.”

 

She laughed and shrugged. “Oh, okay. I had a feeling.”

 

“You did? How?”

 

“Once, you told me about a boy who got out from his shitty home town alive, and how he went on to publish books under a different  name. Also, I’ve read your work, and I’ve read those books—the voice is the same.”

 

Jughead looked at her incredulously. “Of course you put it together! Sometimes I forget how smart you are. But I bet you can’t guess where the name came from.”

 

Betty looked at him and he could see the gears turning. “I have no idea. How on earth did you come up with a name like Tunny Wilkins?” She laughed as she said the name.

 

“Tunny is short for Pendleton, my middle name. Wilkins is my mom’s maiden name.”

 

“Pendleton... that was your dad’s. Are you named after your father?”

 

“Forsythe Pendleton Jones the Third,” he said, raising his hand. “Can you see why I prefer Jughead?”

 

“One hundred percent.” He watched her take a long sip from her milkshake. “For the record, I hope you know that the only thing you have in common with that man is your name. You are _nothing_ like him.”

 

Jughead nodded wordlessly and shoved the last bit of his burger in his mouth. He knew he was nothing like his father, especially after what he’d learned in the past week.

 

Instead, he wanted to bring up something he’d been thinking about the last few days, ever since he and Betty had met and she’d revealed the truth about what she does in her spare time. He leaned forward, bringing his head closer to hers, wanting to keep the conversation private. “Can I ask you something?”

 

\-- 

 

Jughead’s voice was muted yet urgent, and she found herself leaning closer in response. She nodded slowly, startled by his suddenly weighted tone.

 

“I know I said I didn’t want to know details. But… it’s bugging me. I understand _why_ , but how? How did it even start?” He struggled through the question, unable to force himself to say out loud exactly what he knew _it_ was. Betty didn’t know if it was for her sake or his. Regardless, it didn’t help the small flicker of fear that sparked in her stomach.

 

She had resolved herself at this point to be completely honest with him—it was the only way they’d form a functional relationship—but it still caught her off guard when he asked for specifics. Her hands began to shake and she folded them tightly in front of her. She didn’t know where to start, how much to share.

 

Jughead’s gaze dropped to her clenched hands and he reached silently across the table to uncurl her fists, holding them gently in his own.

 

“Are you sure you want to know?” Betty asked quietly, staring at their joined hands.

 

“You know how important honesty is in a relationship,” he assured her, winking as he returned her words from their earlier days.

 

She let herself smile and swallowed loudly. He was, despite everything he’d already learned about her, still around. Perhaps he could handle this, too.

 

“The first time… I...” She sucked in a deep breath. “It was an accident. Well, not an accident. I did it on purpose, but I didn’t plan for it to happen.” She squeezed his hands, knuckles white.

 

“I was covering an emergency room shift during my fellowship when a man was brought in with six stabs wounds to the abdomen and chest. His wife had done it, apparently fed up from years of physical and sexual abuse to her and their children. I could’ve saved him—stopped the bleeding, booked him an OR—but he just kept ranting and cursing at his wife. I remember he called her a bitch, said he was going to kill them all when he got out.” She shook her head at the memory and took another deep breath.

 

“His life was in my hands, and I just… let him bleed out. And afterward, I didn’t feel bad. Only relieved. And then no one cared, because we lost people all the time in the ER. I got away with it and no one so much as blinked. The wife wasn’t charged either, thankfully. She got off on self-defense.”

 

Betty finally looked up from their joined hands to peek at Jughead’s face. His eyes were calm, thoughtful, so she continued.

 

“I moved to New York soon after. My first week in the OCME was hell. I dealt with victims of a shooting, infanticide, a few women who’d been murdered working the streets. I realized then—after being raised fairly sheltered, controlled by my mother—there was so much evil in the world I had never seen. So many meaningless, terrible, tragic deaths that occurred, and the only death I’d personally experienced that felt important was the one I had let happen.” She cleared her throat.

 

“I had everything I needed to kill again right at my fingertips. I knew how the body worked, inside and out. I had connections with law enforcement, access to case files and information you can’t just search on the internet. I had that resolve, that knowledge that I could kill and not feel anything. I had the strongest desire to do it again.”

 

She looked up to meet Jughead’s eyes, but his were directed at their hands. She stroked her thumb over his knuckles in an attempt to reassure him. She was still the same. Still his Betty. Eventually, he looked up.

 

He nodded slowly. “Okay.”

 

“Okay?” Her shoulders loosened.

 

“I already said I didn’t want to change any part of you. As long as these,” he coughed, “urges aren’t directed toward me, I think we’ll be fine.”

 

She stared at him skeptically. “You don’t think this makes me a terrible person?” She finally asked the question she’d always feared his answer to, her voice breaking on the last syllable.

 

“Well, I didn’t say that…” He paused and Betty’s heart rate spiked. He squeezed her hand as if he noticed. “Relax. Hey, I’m kidding.”

 

Before she could register what was happening, Jughead was out of his seat and next to her, on her side of the booth. He took her hands in his again, running this thumbs across her palms. He kissed her knuckles and Betty’s eyes fluttered shut at how gentle the gesture was.

 

“It doesn’t matter what you’ve done in your past. I don’t care. You are not a terrible person. Maybe a little morally ambiguous,” he chuckled and pressed his forehead to hers, “But you’re still you, and who you are is fucking _amazing_.”

 

His words echoed in the booth, in her ears, and found their home in her heart. She felt giddy, like a thousand butterflies had just taken flight in her stomach. She pressed herself closer to him and the tip of her nose grazed his.

 

She hadn’t imagined this. There was no way she could have. Confessing to him had been terrifying, and she was sure there was still more she would have to share. But if he could hear about her story, her past, and still look at her the way he did in that moment, then she could tell him everything. She trusted him with her truth, with her life.

 

For so long, the weight of her indiscretions had been hers and hers alone; it was a relief to shoulder that burden with someone else.

 

“Thank you, Juggie,” she whispered, and a bright smile cracked her face.

 

\--

 

They hadn’t made plans on where to stay while they were in town, mostly because Jughead hadn’t even been sure he was going to show up for his father’s funeral. With their options limited at the last minute, he figured the trailer where he was raised was as good a place as any to stay for a night while in Riverdale.

 

“This is where you grew up?” Betty asked, her hand firmly gripped in his as they made their way up the stairs to the front door.

 

Jughead bent down and tipped over the flower pot full of dead stems to find that his father never changed where he hid the key. He slid it in the lock and the door creaked open. He walked in first, feeling for a light switch. He flipped it up and to his surprise, the lights came blinking on.

 

He looked around, still standing in the doorway, taking everything in. It smelled the same as he remembered—full of self-loathing and stale alcohol. It was cleaner than he remembered, though. More homey than anything he’d ever experienced when he lived there himself. There weren’t bottles scattered across the floor or blankets thrown haphazardly on the chair in the corner.

 

He wondered why it was in such good shape.

 

Betty squeezed his hand in reassurance and he turned around to grab the bags from the porch. He let her slip inside before he closed the door behind him. It was strange being back. It was surreal following Betty across the threshold.

 

Betty placed herself in front of him and planted her hands firmly on his shoulders. Jughead’s eyes were cast down at the worn brown carpeting. Her hands slid to his neck, moving his eyes to hers, which sparkled with something glorious despite their desolate and dreary location. He wasn’t sure what it was, but she kept his stare.

 

“He’s not here. He can’t hurt you anymore,” she whispered.

 

He felt the reality of her words seep into his bones, calming him. His eyes flicked between hers and her lips. He pressed his forehead to hers, breathing her in. Now finally having time to process her touch, her embrace, he felt it. Electricity, even after all the contact they’d shared. It wasn’t just the first touch, but every one they’d exchanged so far. He felt the comfort he’d never known in her arms, a place of belonging.

 

He could finally take in the smell of her hair—coconut, mint, with the smallest hint of vanilla. The feel of her skin under his touch. Soft and smooth, just as he imagined.

 

Despite the comfort he felt, he was overwhelmed by her at the same time.

 

He reached up to cup her cheeks, this thumb stroking absently at her jaw. He took another deep breath.

 

“I know we haven't spent much time together yet,” he started, his words whispered across her face, “but I just have to ask because I don't want to assume anything when it comes to this—”

 

“What are you trying to say, sweetheart?” He could see her eyes were closed, he could feel her breath on his neck.

 

“I really want to kiss you.”

 

He closed his eyes and took another deep breath. He felt her nose nudge his, slowly, drawing up one side and to the other, her breath still fanning his face.

 

“So, what're you waiting for?”

 

He nuzzled her nose back and continued to stroke her jaw. He slowly tilted her head up, his lips so close to hers. He leaned in, the fraction of space closed as his lips captured hers.

 

It was soft, gentle. Exactly as a first kiss should have been. The light push-pull as their lips melded together like they'd been kissing each other their entire lives.

 

Betty hands gripped at his lapel, pulling him in closer as she deepened the kiss. He followed her lead, opening for her when her tongue nearly begged for entrance. The flick of her tongue had him moaning into her mouth.

 

He couldn’t help himself. It was more than he had imagined. The combination of her skin on his, the intoxicating smell of her, her tongue exploring his mouth for the first time, it was all too much and at the same time, not enough.

 

His hand slipped to the back of her neck, holding her head still, trying to steady himself as he got lost in her. Without realizing it, they were moving toward the couch. The same old flannel couch he’d seen his father passed out on more times than he could remember. The back of his knees hit the arm and he side stepped it before falling backward.

 

Betty pushed at his chest slightly, a small smirk on her lips. He barely had enough time to catch his breath before she was straddling his lap, her skirt creeping up her thighs, exposing more skin than Jughead knew what to do with.

 

He placed his hands tentatively on her thighs and she responded by swiping her tongue at his bottom lip again. Her hips rolled against his and he instinctively met them with his own. He’d heard her moan before, over the phone and on Skype, but _nothing_ would be the same as having the real thing in his ear, reverberating through him straight to his groin.

 

He wanted to see her, feel her heartbeat and her breath on him. As if she read his mind, her mouth left his and began to travel to his neck. His hands travelled from her thighs to her waist, grasping at her ribcage and thumbing just under her breasts. Her breathing was shallow near his ear and he couldn’t help the low groan that escaped his lungs.

 

Something reignited in Betty. It wasn’t just a spark—it didn’t gather heat and flame as it was gently fanned. It was an inferno, bursting into existence like someone had dumped a can of gasoline on her and followed with a match. It was an immediate and overwhelming heat, coiling in the bottom of her stomach.

 

She lost control the second Jughead’s lips met hers. All she wanted to do was jump him, devour him, get lost in him. After all they’d been through, after all the phone calls and the skype dates and the sexual tension—

 

“Maybe we should… Maybe we should slow down? I don’t want to rush and… I don’t… not here,” Jughead gasped in her ear as her mouth continued down his neck.

 

“Whatever you want, honey,” she heard herself say as she nipped at the sharp angles of his collarbones.

 

She heard another sharp intake of breath and then he shifted underneath her. “Betts…”

 

She groaned and tore herself from his skin, leaning back in his arms reluctantly. His face was completely flushed, his lips swollen, his hair mussed. He was completely disheveled, and the realization she was the one who caused it had her biting her lip and blushing. “Sorry, Juggie.”

 

He laughed and shifted again, adjusting himself. “No, _I’m_ sorry. I really want to, but I just… It’s too weird here.” He frowned sheepishly. “I just want it to be perfect.”

 

She giggled, smoothing her hands through his hair, tugging at the ends. “Well, aren’t you a romantic?” She ducked her head to kiss his cheek lightly. “I want it to be perfect, too.”

 

His hands rested on her thighs again, his thumbs stroked the skin she’d exposed. Betty shot him a pointed look.

 

“What?” he asked, his thumbs digging in slightly to her thighs. “Does that mean I’m not allowed to touch you?”

 

“You’re testing my resolve, Juggie,” she whispered, leaning close again. She felt his hands move from the top of her thighs to rest on the swell of her ass and she shivered. “I’ve wanted this for six months.”

 

“Is that so?” he asked as he pulled her closer into him. “Although, _this_ ,” he said, biting at her earlobe, “isn’t very specific. I might need you to clarify that for me.”

 

Betty hissed at the contact. She could feel him again, between her legs, right where she wanted him, but still not quite _close enough._ “Jughead,” she groaned as she leaned forward, resting her head on his shoulder, pressing her lips to his neck again.

 

“That doesn’t sound like an explanation to me, Elizabeth,” he said, moving his neck just out of her reach and she whimpered at the loss. “Tell me what it is you’ve wanted for six months.”

 

Betty swallowed. She’d never get used to how her awkwardly shy boyfriend was so forward and in control when it came to situations like this. She’d always loved that dirty mouth of his and had been certain it would be that much sweeter in person. It _was._

 

“Well,” she said, shifting back to his neck, “there’s this.” She threaded her fingers through his inky black waves and heard him groan from the pressure. “Then, there’s this,” she teased as she traced her fingers down his jaw and across his lips. “And this.” She punctuated the sentence with a kiss. “And this,” she said, rolling her hips into his.

 

His mouth was dangerously close to her ear and she heard him breathe in on the continuous roll of her hips. His lips made their way to her neck and the moan that dripped from her lips would have been embarrassing if she’d been in the frame of mind to care.

 

“Is that specific enough for you, _Forsythe_?” Betty continued to roll her hips down against him, her heart fluttering when she heard his reaction to it. She’d been dying to be here with him—on top of him, she should say—since the beginning of their relationship, but she didn’t want to give everything away just yet.

 

Jughead shook his head against her collarbone. His hands gripped at her ass as he pulled her closer into him. She felt his hands smoothe up her sides, toying with the seam of her shirt that she wanted to rip off. Even without him tugging it from her skirt, it was hard for her to restrain herself from tearing the fabric from her body. She could feel his hands shaking, presumably from nerves, and she felt the need to be impossibly closer to him.

 

“What about this?” he asked as he tentatively pawed at her chest; she arched into his touch. “Or this?” He trailed his hands back to her thighs, slowly slipping them under her skirt. Betty’s breathing was hitched and she could hear the chuckle in his breath and his hand continued to wander up her skirt.

 

“Definitely this,” Betty said, taking control of the situation and grinding down onto his hand. She felt him groan against her neck as he raked his teeth over her skin. She braced his cheeks between her hands and kissed him senseless. She didn’t give him time to think; she didn’t want him to. As her tongue explored his mouth, she felt his fingers twitching at her core.

 

“Fuck it,” he groaned against her, his fingers continuing their exploration between her legs.

 

 _Thank God_. She wasn’t entirely sure how to say she didn’t want to stop, but she understood his reasoning in doing so earlier. Still, she was glad he’d finally decided to throw caution and hesitance to the wind. She bucked her hips to meet his hand again, another whimper falling from her throat into his mouth.

 

“For the record,” he panted against her skin, “I’ve wanted it, too.” His fingers edged her panties to the side and found their way to her slick heat. He had just started moving them with more confidence when there was a loud knock at the door.

 

“You’ve got to be _fucking kidding me_ ,” Betty said, throwing her head back in sheer frustration. The knock became a hurried pound and soon gave way to a trailer-shaking thud.

 

Jughead pushed at her hips and placed her on the couch with a kiss on the forehead before heading to open the door, his displeasure evident across his face. “Who the hell—”

 

He pulled the door open and Betty—in the middle of adjusting her clothes—recognized the woman’s voice before she saw her face.

 

“Where the _fuck_ is she?”

 

Betty watched Jughead’s eyes widen at the woman in the doorway. Penny. He turned to look at her, mouth slightly gaping.

 

“Who?”

 

“You know who I’m talking about, kid. Where’s blondie?” Penny barked, slamming a flat palm against the trailer door and pushing herself inside.

 

Jughead tried to block the doorway with his body but Penny was determined. Betty could tell he was nervous, his earlier fears realized. But Betty knew he had nothing to worry about. Maybe Penny had her suspicions, but Betty was confident she could take care of her.

 

Betty quirked her eyebrow up, staring down Penny as she came into view. It was her well rehearsed, no-nonsense face that she’d perfected over the years working as a female in medicine. She would not let this awful woman get to her or to Jughead. It was Betty’s job to protect him from the evil of the world, and that included his dead father’s girlfriend.

 

She watched as Penny crossed her arms over her chest, the worn leather of her vest wrinkled under their weight.

 

“What can I do for you, Miss Peabody?” Betty asked in her saccharine sweet professional voice.

 

“You’ve done enough, Dr. Elizabeth Cooper,” Penny spat, eyes wild. “I know you did it. I know you fucking killed them.”

 

Betty saw Jughead freeze behind Penny, but she didn’t let it distract her. There was no way Penny had any solid evidence to base her claim on. Betty widened her eyes in mock shock. “ _Me?_ How did you come to that conclusion?”

 

“Your blonde ponytail gives you away. I recognized you in your office. You’re the same bitch I saw sneaking around FP’s properties.”

 

Betty blinked slowly and tilted her head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

 

Penny’s lip curled and she started toward her just as Jughead lunged forward to grab her arm, and not gently. He stopped her from advancing but she shook off his grip. Betty met his gaze and she shook her head slightly.

 

Penny jabbed her finger at Betty. “I saw you outside the building, the night of the fire. I saw you watching FP for weeks. I saw your smug attitude in the office and I cannot believe you would show your fucking face here now.”

 

Betty couldn’t help herself; she laughed. “Jughead asked me to come. He wanted my support.” She walked slowly toward the seething woman. “You wouldn’t expect him to come to his father’s funeral all alone, would you?”  

 

“Does he know?” Penny growled, “That you killed his father?”

 

“Penny, it’s time for you to leave.” Jughead spoke up and grabbed her arm again. Betty noticed his expression had shifted from fear to anger.

 

“Don’t fucking touch me, kid.” She tried to shove him away but he didn’t budge. He dropped his hands but stood close, waiting for her next move.

 

“You underestimated me, blondie. If you weren’t so stuck up, maybe you would’ve researched me, too. I’m an _attorney,_ and a fucking good one. Mal, FP, none of the Serpents or Ghoulies ever got nailed for anything because of me.”

 

It all clicked in Betty’s head. Everything made sense. This woman had not only known about her nephew and boyfriend’s disgusting escapades, she had helped them get away with them. This woman was just as bad, just as poisonous as the ones she was associated with. Betty felt the familiar indignation rise up, tightening in her chest. Her fingers curled at her sides.

 

Jughead watched as Betty’s demeanor changed. Of course, he knew that she was involved in his father’s death, but Penny didn’t need the confirmation. He was angry now. This woman, this degenerate, awful human being was threatening his girl, and he would not stand for it.

 

“Penny, I suggest you leave. Now.” His jaw was set tight, his heart pounding in his chest. Betty had said she was careful, said she went unnoticed and left no trace. But evidently, she was wrong. She had been spotted by Penny, of all people.

 

In that moment, he wasn’t sure who he was more upset with: Betty for leaving a loose end or Penny for _being_ that loose end. He could almost guarantee that Betty would be mad at herself for it. She had assured him there was nothing to worry about, but it seemed that she had been wrong and he wasn’t entirely sure how to handle it.

 

His eyes widened behind Penny’s back, staring at Betty and hoping she was watching him silently beg for an explanation. _Telepathy would be really nice right about now_.

 

It didn’t seem to be working and Jughead’s frustration soared. He rattled through possible solutions to this problem, but none of them seemed feasible. Before he was able to think of anything else, Penny seemed to back off. She turned toward Jughead, who was careful to change his bewildered expression before she caught it.

 

His eyes were hard again, leaving his face completely expressionless. He was careful not to look toward Betty. He knew if he did, he’d give his emotions away and Penny would be able to tell she’d rattled him, surely what she was hoping to achieve.

 

“This is not over,” Penny said, her jaw set tight, words forced from behind her teeth.

 

Jughead watched as she stormed out, slamming the door behind her, causing the entire trailer to quake as she bounded down the steps. He heard the roar of her motorcycle fade into nothing before he dared to move.

 

“You said there were no loose ends!” Jughead nearly exploded.

 

“I didn’t think there were any! I was careful!”

 

“Evidently not careful enough. What if she goes to the police?

 

“She seems hellbent on her own justice. Trust me, I would know.” Betty scoffed and murmured under her breath.

 

“Trust you? _Trust you?!_ Jesus Christ. Trusting you is what got us here in the fucking first place!” He could feel the heat in his cheeks and the anger rising in his chest.

 

“Why are you yelling at me?” He could see the tears beginning to well behind her eyes, the brilliant green bright under the dim lights of the trailer.

 

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he whispered, a humorless laugh emanating from his lips. He pressed his thumbs to his temples, trying to dissipate his rage, but it was no use.

 

“Because,” he started, “ _you_ murdered my father. _You_ dragged me into it, and now his crazy, vindictive bitch of a girlfriend knows!”

 

The tense silence was deafening. Jughead stood there, his fisted hands on his hips, trying to calm himself down. He wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that, only a few feet apart, but all the space in the world between them.

 

“I thought you said you were okay, Jug,” Betty whispered, breaking the silence.

 

“Apparently, I’m not.” He took a few more sobering breaths before he continued. “I’m sorry for yelling. It's not helping anything.”

 

Jughead dragged his hands through his hair and down his face, trying to think of a way to continue. He didn’t mean to lose his temper, he never did. _You’re a Jones, after all_ , he mused to himself. He stook the thought from his head, never wanting to be compared to his father again, but he know it was inevitable, at least while he was still standing in the trailer, feeling ten years old after a fight with his drunk father in that very spot.

 

He stepped toward her, wrapping his arms around her shoulders, his hand in her hair, whispering _I’m sorry_ into the top of her head.

 

“I deserved it,” she finally choked out. He could feel her trembling in his arms. “It was risky and I knew it and I didn’t care and now… now I’ve put you in danger when I never meant to.” Her tears broke through fully on her last few syllables.

 

He pressed his lips gently to her forehead. “It’s okay, baby. We’ll figure this out together.”

 

They stayed in their bubble, listening to the whistle of wind whipping through the trailer park. They were both emotional for obvious reasons, but they knew they wouldn’t get anywhere with rash overreactions. Jughead thought he was okay with his girlfriend’s choices, he wanted to be, but he supposed it would take longer than a week to get over something so dangerous.

 

She sniffled and nodded. “Juggie, we need to take care of her, I think. I need to take care of her.”

 

Jughead pulled away from her, their eyes connecting. Hers were no longer glassy, but nervous. Betty’s urges were what got them into the mess they were in with Penny. Maybe they were just what they needed to get them out of it, too.

 

 _She really wasn’t kidding when she said she dabbled in murder. And I was right when I said she could totally murder me and cover it up. I guess I’m a better judge of character than I thought._ A short laugh fell from his mouth. 

 

He kissed her forehead and squeezed her shoulders tight before finally acknowledging her words.

 

“If I remember correctly, the currents of Sweetwater River are especially treacherous this time of year.”

 

.

 

.

 

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DUN DUN DUNNNNNNNNNN! Whatever could possibly happen next? Tell us how you feel! We love hearing from you guys. Have some theories? Let us know! We flail at your wonderful feedback and couldn't be happier you guys are loving this. :) find us on the tumbles or discord to chat [shrugheadjonesthethird - cyd / psychobetts - alix]
> 
> Until next week, dear readers! <3


	9. Exploration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back! Just FYI - we're moving our post date back to Tuesdays to account for Riverdale on Wednesday nights. 
> 
> Thank you to all who have continued to read this story and support us by leaving their thoughts in the comments. We love you all. We are overjoyed every time we get a comment notification. 
> 
> Well, we won't keep you any longer. Enjoy this chapter, it's a fun one! You've all earned it...

* * *

* * *

 

 

Betty had suggested they leave Riverdale that evening instead of sticking around. Although she felt bad about cutting their time in Jughead’s hometown short, there was no reason to hang around anymore. With the heinous Forsythe buried, every loose end had been tied up, every concern dealt with.

 

To her relief, Jughead agreed. They returned their belongings to the trunk of her car and headed off toward the city.

 

The sun was setting by the time they finally crossed city limits, the sky a magnificent blend of hazy pink, violet, and peach. Betty marveled at the colors spilt across the horizon as she reached out to Jughead in the passenger seat.

 

As she brushed his leg, she glanced over to notice his position. He was slumped against the door, head resting on his curled hand, fast asleep. His mouth was slightly ajar and his chest rose up and down slowly. She smiled at how serene his face looked in sleep. It was a nice change compared to how he’d been a few hours ago. How he’d been the majority of the time they’d been in Riverdale. She couldn’t help but feel a little proud of the fact that he allowed himself to relax enough to fall asleep in her presence.

 

She let him snooze as she navigated the busy streets to his apartment. After everything he’d been through that day, he deserved rest. She reached over to brush a lock of hair off his forehead.

 

She just wished she could rest with him.

 

When she pulled up to his apartment building, it was like he knew he was home. He lifted his head from its awkward position and he peered around, bleary-eyed.

 

“Welcome home, sleepyhead,” she said, giggling.

 

His lips lifted in a sweet smile. “Wow, I was out. Sorry.”

 

She shook her head and reached across the seat to rest her hand on his leg. “No, don’t apologize. It was a tough day.”

 

He nodded and gripped her fingers. “Thanks, Betts.”

 

Betty broke her eyes from his gaze to look out the window at the entrance to his apartment building. She’d picked him up that morning; he’d been waiting on the street for her when she’d arrived, so she hadn’t had the opportunity to see his place. Looking at the building now, she wanted to desperately. She wanted to see his home, where he relaxed, where he wrote, where he slept. She wanted to see his collection of books, video games, see how empty his cupboards certainly were. She wanted to step into his place of solace and let it teach her who he was.

 

Also, if she was being honest, she wanted to pick up where they left off. Where they’d been so _rudely_ interrupted.

 

She felt Jughead’s hand release hers as she continued to stare out the window. He cleared his throat and her eyes darted back to his.

 

“Do you… want to come in?” he asked, the slight pause indicating his trepidation. She wasn’t sure if he was still nervous about her, or if it was just _awkward Jughead_ speaking.

 

“Yeah, sure,” she said, nodding slowly as she struggled to hide her enthusiasm.

 

Jughead smiled and scrubbed at his sleep-lined face before pushing the door open. Betty popped the trunk before she opened her own door to join him in gathering his things. Her stomach jumped when she noticed her overnight bag slung over his shoulder and she looked up to meet his dark gaze.

 

“You don’t have to take-”

 

“Yes, I do,” he said with a slow smile. He slammed the trunk shut and started toward the door.

 

\--

 

He could feel Betty’s hand at his elbow as they walked the few floors to his apartment, the heat radiating into his skin. He slowly dropped their bags and slid the key into the lock. He pushed the bags in with his feet and ushered Betty in, closing the door behind him.

 

“Can I get you anything?” Jughead asked, pulling off his jacket, hanging it on the hook next to the door and kicking off his shoes.

 

“I can think of a thing or two,” she said. He watched her walk toward him in long, sultry strides, backing him against the door.

 

“Oh, yeah?” He swallowed carefully around his words. “What’s that?”

 

“I believe we were interrupted,” she said as she ran her finger down his chest. Her voice was soft and full of something he could only label as desire.

 

Jughead felt his heart begin to race under her watchful eye. He ducked his head and captured her lips, hands finding purchase on her hips and pulling her closer. Her arms wrapped around his neck and her lips parted for him without preamble. His hand jumped to the back of her neck, pulling her closer again, closer than he ever thought possible.

 

She pressed into him, gluing his back further to the door. He pushed at her hips, leading her slowly backward into the apartment. He turned her around, walking himself backward to the couch. His calves hit the seat and he plopped down with Betty now on top of him. Her legs straddled his thighs, just as they were in the trailer, but this time there was no hesitation in continuing. It wasn’t perfect or planned, but it was _them_. And at least they were alone.

 

He felt Betty’s lips attach to his ear and trail down his neck, her teeth grazing down the column of his throat. A husky growl ripped from his lungs as she rolled her hips skillfully into his lap.

 

“Where did we leave off?” Jughead asked, the gravel of his voice spurring her hips to roll a little faster. He placed his hands on her thighs, just under the fabric of her dress, slowly sliding up. He kept going until he heard her sharp gasp.

 

“I think you were just about there,” Betty breathed.

 

Afraid of getting interrupted again, Jughead didn’t waste any time sliding his fingers passed her underwear and right to her slick folds. His lips were on hers again, swallowing her breathy moan. She hummed against his neck as he slid his fingers through her slick heat.

 

With one hand firmly gripping at her ass, he continued his ministration between her legs. She rocked her hips to the best of her ability under his hold. Without warning, he stopped and extracted his hands from her underwear and stuck them in his mouth.

 

“Your description did not do you justice,” he nearly growled, savoring her flavor from his fingertips.

 

He leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers, gently at first, but the feel of her on top of him again quickly spurred him on. He rolled his hips up to meet hers, hands everywhere at once, trying to feel as much of her as he could. Jughead shifted his hips and laid her down on the couch, her blonde tresses spread around her like a halo.

 

He traced her curves, looking down at her, seeing her emerald eyes darken with every inch he traveled up her body. Betty’s legs wrapped around his hips and her hands found their way to his hair and pulled him in for a bruising kiss.

 

It was his turn to nip at her neck. Feeling her writhe beneath him did nothing to quell his desire for her. He had imagined what it would be like, how she’d feel under him as he assaulted her neck and pawed at her chest, but now he had the real thing on display and undisturbed. If he thought what happened at the trailer was amazing, this was otherworldly.

 

He kissed his way down from the top of her heaving chest as his hands slid underneath the fabric of her dress and smoothed over the curve of her hips. His thumbs looped around the elastic of her panties.

 

“Is this okay?” he whispered, hoping against all hope that he wasn’t moving too quickly.

 

Betty’s eyes fluttered under his touch and she nodded enthusiastically at his question. “Yes.”

 

 _Thank god_ , Jughead thought as he slid her underwear from around her hips down her thighs. She lifted her hips and untangled her legs from around him to get them the rest of the way off. He shoved them into his pants pocket, not wanting them to be sullied by his dusty apartment floor.

 

He kissed his way from her forehead to her chest as his hands smoothed over her impossibly soft skin. He could feel goosebumps erupt on her body as she writhed under his touch and heard sharp inhales as he kissed his way down her stomach, over the cotton of her dress.

 

His eyes flicked to hers in a silent question. She bit her lip and nodded, the last of the green in her eyes disappearing behind the eclipse of her pupils, desire completely overtaking her. He flipped her skirt up, leaving her completely on display for his eyes only. He licked his lips, excited to dive in.

 

Keeping eye contact as long as he could, he continued his kisses south, placing one next to her belly button, then to her hip, passing over her glistening sex to place another soft kiss at the smooth expanse of her inner thigh. He could feel the gentle shake of her legs, the anticipation egging them both on.

 

His exploration was tentative at first as his kisses made their way from her thigh inward. He was going to take his time, give her the euphoria she deserved in such a dastardly world. He took a deep breath, more for himself than anything else. He was already overwhelmed by her. The sound of her breathing grew more shallow as his lips neared their destination. How he was able to wait six months to physically touch her he wasn’t sure, but now he knew it with certainty that he never wanted to be without her gentle touch and beaming smile ever again.

 

“Ready?” He asked, huffing a small breath onto her center.

 

“More than,” Betty breathed, her hands finding their way into his soft waves, directing him closer to her.

 

He inched steadily closer, continuing the torturously slow buildup. Just as his tongue was about to reach out and taste her, a rattling thud came to the door.

 

“Are you fucking kidding?!” Jughead grumbled as he leaned back from her. “I’m _so_ sorry. Maybe it’s for the neighbor,” he said, about to dive back in to his previous position.

 

“FORSYTHE PENDLETON, YOU OPEN THIS GODDAMN DOOR!” The shrill voice that could only belong to Veronica Lodge rang through the apartment, accompanied by more thunderous pounding on the door.

 

Jughead groaned as Betty sat up and readjusted her skirt, biting her tongue against her own frustration. _Every time_ , she thought. _It’s like the universe is plotting against us._

 

She watched as Jughead begrudgingly got up from the couch and straightened himself out. She watched his long, dexterous fingers run through his mussed black curls and she had to cross her legs to dull the ache.

 

Nonsensical grumbles dropped from his lips as he made his way to the door and pulled it open forcefully.

 

“ _What?_ I told you I was going to be away for a few days. How’d you even know I was back early?” he asked, his voice hard.

 

“Oh. Hi, Jughead. Yes, we’re doing fine. What’s new? Oh, nothing, just my best friend not telling me his _father_ died!” Betty watched the muscular, redheaded man push his way into Jughead’s apartment shooting daggers with his eyes, a dark-haired beauty trailing in his wake. They turned their backs to her, seemingly unaware of her presence on the couch.

 

Due to Jughead’s frequent mention of them, she recognized the people immediately. _The infamous Archie and Veronica._

 

“Archie, it’s not that serious,” Jughead said, rubbing the back of his neck.

 

“Not that serious?! Jughead, it doesn’t matter that you haven’t seen him in years. He’s still your _father_ ,” Veronica said, hands waving hysterically in the air.

 

“Fred is more of a father than he was and you know it. It isn’t a big deal. Is that all you came to say?” Jughead asked, his voice still stern. Betty could tell he was trying to rush them out.

 

Their eyes met across the room and a small swell of pride blossomed in her chest. It seemed like he wanted to get back to her instead of dealing with his friends, with more aftermath of his father. She couldn’t blame him. He winked at her, and she felt a distinct flutter in her abdomen. She sighed softly before she could stifle it, and her hands flew up to her face.

 

The two visitors whipped around at the sound, and Veronica’s eyes narrowed on her.

 

“Out of town, huh?” Veronica asked, her well-manicured eyebrows shooting to the middle of her forehead.

 

“Yes,” Jughead said as he approached Betty. He reached out his hands to hers, indicating for her to join him. “ _We_ just got back a few minutes ago _from the funeral_ and if you don’t mind, we’d like to relax—”

 

“Jug, it’s okay. I can go. We’ll talk later,” Betty whispered against her better judgement. She didn’t want to leave, not even remotely so. She smoothed down her skirt in an attempt to ease her growing nerves.

 

“No, baby, it’s fine. Don’t go,” he whispered at the shell of her ear, sending a strong shiver down her spine. “Please?” He pulled back to look at her as he took her hand in his and squeezed it. His eyes were wide, dark, and full of something she could only assume was desperation, because it likely matched her own expression.

 

Her nod was small, but it got the answer across. She leaned into his side, preparing to meet the two most important people in Jughead’s life. She took one deep breath, then another, before her signature Cooper smile graced her face and she turned to see his guests staring at her, wide-eyed and confused.

 

She felt Jughead’s shoulder tense as he drew in his own breath.  “Archie, Veronica, this is Betty. My girlfriend. I’ve told you about her.”

 

“Ah yes, the internet broa—” Archie started before he was cut off by a swift smack to the stomach from his wife.

 

“Yes, we’ve heard so much about you. Don’t mind my husband, he lacks customary social graces,” Veronica crooned, pointing to her husband who was licking his proverbial wounds. She turned to Jughead with a wink. “Nice job, Jug. She’s even more beautiful than the photo on your desk.”

 

Betty tilted her head to look at Jughead, her mind full of questions. _He has my picture on his desk? Which one is it?_

 

She realized then that she’d barely even looked around the space she so desperately wanted to see not even an hour ago. She spun to finally take in her surroundings, noting the multiple bookshelves filled to capacity with titles she couldn’t read from far away, the desk with a cork board directly above it, covered in string and notes in chicken scratch handwriting, and there, right next to his laptop, a framed photo of her.

 

It was the first one she sent him—poorly lit, a little risque, but the first nonetheless.

 

She could feel the warmth of her embarrassment on her face as she buried her head back into Jughead’s shoulder.

 

“Yeah, I know,” Jughead said, responding to Veronica’s early statement, his voice softer than it had been mere moments earlier. He nuzzled his nose against her hair and placed a chaste kiss to the top of her head. “But, if you’ll both excuse us, we’re pretty tired. It’s been a long and emotional day. We’ll get together later in the week and I’ll fill you in on everything.”

 

Betty lifted her head from its hiding place to see Veronica’s dark eyes darting between them, brows furrowed. “But—”

 

“I’ll even wear a tie, Veronica. Just give us some time, okay?” He pleaded.

 

Veronica pulled her shoulders back and straightened, turning on a heel to face her husband.

 

“C’mon, Archiekins. The kids want some _alone time_.” Her brows wiggled suggestively and Archie’s eyes widened in understanding. “But, Jug,” she said, turning back to face the couple, “bring Betty along to dinner this time. I have a feeling we’re going to be fast friends.” She winked as she ushered her husband to the door.

 

“Bye, Jug,” Archie called out as the door slammed shut.

 

Jughead left her side as soon as the door was closed. She giggled as he bolted the door, locked the knob, and fastened the chain for good measure. He was back to her side in three quick strides, cupping her face and pulling her in for a dizzying kiss.

 

“No more interruptions,” he breathed against her lips as he pulled away from her. His hands smoothed down to her shoulders, his thumbs fixed under the straps of her dress. “How do you feel knowing you just met my best friends while your panties are in my pocket?” His voice was thick, gravelly, deep, and her thighs clenched at the rapid change.

 

Betty swallowed the words in her throat in time for another bruising kiss. There was nothing slow or languid about it. He must’ve been afraid, just as she was, to be interrupted again. She could feel the tension in his shoulders release as her arms wrapped around them, as her fingers danced in the hairs at the nape of his neck.

 

As she twirled the curls in her reach, his lips sank lower, settling behind her ear and eventually at her pulse point. Betty’s heart began to race and her eyes fluttered shut, revelling in the feeling of his tongue on her skin. She opened her mouth in silent pleasure as she felt Jughead’s teeth graze her sensitive skin.

 

His tongue smoothed over the bite mark as he continued down. His hands were planted at her hips, and Betty could feel the heat from his palms through her dress. He kissed the top of her chest as he slowly peeled her dress down, gathering it at her waist.

 

“Hmm,” he hummed, and she felt his chuckle before she heard it.

 

“What?”

 

“I always pegged you for a matching undergarments type. At least, that’s what it’s been in my _limited_ experiences with you.”

 

His words were whispers against the bare skin of her stomach.

 

“I didn’t exactly plan this,” she breathed as he kissed the skin of her waist.

 

“So what you’re saying,” he started as he sat back on his heels in front of her, “is that you planned those Skype sessions?”

 

“Yes and no, but that isn’t important right now,” she said, taking the initiative to unclasp her bra, letting it fall abruptly to the ground.

 

His hands trailed up her long bare legs, under the dangling fabric of her dress before he tugged it the rest of the way off of her, pooling it at her feet. Betty stepped to the side, placed her hands at her hips and crooked her finger at him to stand.

 

He complied easily, standing to his full length before her, still fully clothed. She tucked her thumbs underneath his suspenders, just as he did with her straps. She slowly pulled them down and let them dangle at his hips. Her hands quickly and deftly unbuttoned his navy blue dress shirt and untucked it from the waistband of his slacks. She pushed the fabric off his shoulders before raking her fingers down the thin material of his white undershirt. Her fingers made their way under the shirt and played gently against his soft skin.

 

He crossed his arms in front and tugged the shirt up and off, adding it to the growing pile of clothes on the floor. Betty smoothed her palms over the newly exposed skin, feeling his muscles contract beneath her touch. Her nimble fingers unbuttoned his slacks and slowly pulled the zipper down. He was kissing anywhere he could reach while she worked, his hands discovering every part of her. She could feel his pulse in his thumbs as they stroked her collarbone; it matched hers—fast, nearly erratic.

 

He cupped her cheek gently, joining their lips in the softest kiss yet. He began to walk her backward, guiding her carefully toward what she assumed was his bedroom. His hand left her hip to open the door and his foot kicked it closed behind them, leaving their clothes in a heap on the living room floor.

 

They walked until the backs of her legs hit the side of the bed, which stood conveniently at the perfect height for her to sit without extra effort. Betty moved further onto the mattress, the soft, flannel comforter beneath her bare body was worn but comforting.

 

She watched as Jughead crawled up her frame, wedging himself between her legs, leaning forward and kissing her senseless. Her mind was blank as their passion overtook her. His mouth trailed down her neck, the feeling of his tongue on her throat pulling moans from her lungs.

 

“You’re sure, right?” Jughead said against her chest, looking up at her. She wasn’t sure if it was all too much or too fast, but she knew she wanted it, and clearly so did he.

 

“Of course I’m sure,” she told him, threading her fingers into his hair again. He stayed at her chest, breathing heavy, suddenly nervous. “Hey.” He looked up at her again, eyes wide and full of concern. “I love you.”

 

The smile that burst to his face was one she’d never seen before. It was wide and bright and toothy. It was genuine and it was hers. She was the one who put it there, and that, she thought, was the best part about it.

 

“Well, what a coincidence, because I love you,” he said before taking her nipple into his mouth without warning and swirling his tongue around it.

 

Betty sighed in pleasure, her hips rolling in an attempt to find friction to ease the ache that had been building since they were in his childhood home. His kisses continued down and his hands spread her legs wide. He worked his way down until he was eye level with her nearly-dripping sex. He ran his fingers up her thighs and dug them in as he reached out to lick her.

 

“You’re so wet, baby,” he growled as his tongue slid up through her folds for the first time.

 

Betty’s hips bucked involuntarily as she felt the warmth of his tongue on her. He lapped at her and circled her clit and it was more than she ever thought possible. They had barely gotten started and it was already the best sex she'd ever experienced. It wasn’t that she had _too_ much experience in that department, but she was no stranger to it. She revelled in the feel of his hands gripping at her as she fucked his tongue, taking what she wanted with little protest from Jughead.

 

He stayed there, seemingly content between her legs, when she felt her release building in her toes, rolling up to the top of her head. She was sure he could sense it; his circles slowed and soon, his fingers joined, teasing at her entrance before one slipped inside of her, pressing up to a spot that had never been reached before.

 

She couldn’t control her breathing; it was erratic and filled with desperation, his name a ghost on her lips, mingled with attempts at words that simply wouldn’t form. He added another finger, plunging into her slowly as his tongue picked up the pace.

 

“Juggie, I—” was all she managed before the euphoria overtook her. Her hips rolled in time with his ministrations, his fingers working her through until her breathing was stable and steady. He placed a kiss on her sensitive clit before making his way back to her mouth and taking her for a hungry kiss.

 

She could feel him against her thigh, just how turned on he was; she could feel how badly he wanted her, too. Betty raked her nails down his back and into the waistband of his boxers, pulling him closer to her, aching for him to be inside of her.

 

She was having trouble finding the words, ones that conveyed how badly she wanted him. He helped her rid him of the garment and settled back between her legs.

 

“Don’t we need—”

 

She cut him off with a shake of her head. _No_.

 

“But—”

 

Another head shake.

 

“Pill?”

 

She nodded her head yes, somehow still unable to speak, partially from shyness and partially from being so overwhelmed by him. She wanted to feel him; it wasn’t as if she made it a habit of having sex without a condom, but she wanted to. She trusted him fully, with her secrets, with her body, her heart, with everything.

 

The tip of his cock teased at her entrance before nudging her still-sensitive bundle. She hissed at the sensation. Jughead’s forehead was at her shoulder, kissing gently everywhere he could. She felt his labored breath on her skin, the goosebumps budding almost instantly.

 

“Please, Juggie.” She was finally able to speak, though her voice was only a whisper. He took her lips to his again and slowly pushed through her folds, inching his way inside of her warmth.

 

He groaned in her ear and she thought it might just be the sexiest thing she had ever heard. It didn’t take them long to find a steady rhythm, their breathing mingled and the room filled with the sound of their breath bating and their skin joining.

 

When his movement got choppy she could tell he was holding back for her sake. She weasled her hand between them, rubbing gently at her clit to further her orgasm along.

 

“Don’t you wanna be a good girl and come for me, baby?” he rasped. His voice was tight and his fingers moved quickly, replacing hers, resulting in her second undoing of the night.

 

She watched as he pushed himself into her, only needing a few more pumps before he shot warm streams inside of her. He leaned over and kissed her again soundly before plopping himself down next to her and pulling her into his side.

 

She hummed contentedly as she burrowed herself into his shoulder and threw her arm over his stomach. She felt his lips graze her head and her eyes began to flutter closed. Betty was content, relaxed and dare she think, _happy._

 

“Worth the wait,” he whispered into her hair before kissing her again.

 

She wanted to let relaxation overtake her; she wanted to fall asleep in his arms, but she was sure she should get going.

 

“I should go,” she whispered as she tried to sit up.

 

Jughead’s arm wrapped around her, preventing her from moving any further away from him. “You don’t have to.”

 

“I have work in the morning.”

 

“Call in sick. Stay with me. I just got you, I’m not ready for you to go yet.” His voice was soft and full of so much truth it hit her square in the chest. She nuzzled back into his side, forfeiting her attempts to leave. After all, she really didn’t want to anyway. They laid like that a while before they eventually drifted off to sleep.

 

\--

 

Betty sprung awake in a panic. She pulled herself out from under the warmth and safety of Jughead’s bed, padded to the living room to find her cell phone, and made her way to the bathroom.

 

Betty hadn’t requested work off for the funeral. Jughead’s invitation, and her subsequent acceptance had been too sudden to submit a formal request for a personal day, which is how Betty found herself calling Kevin from Jughead’s bathroom at six in the morning, her usual start time, to tell him she was sick.

 

“Elizabeth Cooper, sick?” Kevin asked, chuckling. “I don’t think this has ever happened before. Are you dying?”

 

“If I was, that’s not a very polite way of asking, Kev,” she whispered into the receiver.

 

“Oh, you’re trying not to wake someone. Who is it? _The writer?_ ”

 

She paused and sighed, caught. “Shut up,” she growled.

 

“ _Yes,_ ” he hissed. “Finally. Get it, girl!”

 

She groaned but giggled quietly. “I already did.”

 

She heard him whoop away from the phone and then he was back. “But you sound terrible _,_ Liz. You should get back in bed, nurse that cold. Wouldn’t want to spread it around here to all the healthy folk.”

 

“Thanks, Kevin. You’re the best,” she said, relieved. She knew Kevin would cover for her.

 

“I fucking know it, girl. Have a good day. Give him a kiss for me.”

 

She hung up the phone, chuckling quietly, at that moment catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror.

 

Her hair was mussed, a verifiable disaster, and her makeup was smudged. Her shirt, one of Jughead’s, lay skewed on her shoulders. She looked ravaged, tired, the complete opposite of her usual appearance, and yet she found herself captivated by her reflection. Her eyes were bright; they glinted in the golden vanity light. Her lips were swollen and puffy, but turned up at the corners. It suddenly dawned on her why she stood there in Jughead’s bathroom, examining herself.

 

She looked effortlessly happy.

 

Her smile wasn’t forced or well-rehearsed.

 

Her eyes weren’t tinged with sadness or loneliness.

 

She suddenly felt like she was seeing the real version of herself.

 

She let herself out of the bathroom, making sure to flick the light off before opening the door so she wouldn’t wake Jughead. She tiptoed across the floor to the bed and slid under the covers. Jughead’s warm and still-naked body awaited hers, and she shifted close enough to tuck herself into his chest.

 

His arms immediately moved to allow her into his embrace, then wrapped around her shoulders. She felt the hum in his throat against her head, followed by the press of his lips.

 

“Mornin’, baby,” he whispered so quietly it was almost a sigh.

 

“Hi,” she said to his chest. He felt her lips ghost his bare skin. “I’m sorry I woke you up.”

 

“What time is it?” he asked, not even bothering to open his eyes and look for himself.

 

“Just after six.”

 

“In the morning?” he grumbled.

 

She giggled at his whininess. “Yes, in the morning. Go back to sleep.”

 

“I have a better idea,” he said, turning her around and rolling his hips carefully into her backside. A breathy moan fell from her lips as he pulled her deeper into his embrace. His mouth kissed softly at the available skin and his hands began to wander.

 

The feel of her skin on his was something he wasn’t prepared for. His whole body ignited under her touch and he never wanted to be without that fire. She slowly turned in his arms again and when he went to lean in for a proper good morning kiss, she backed away. He pouted dramatically in his half-asleep state.

 

“Don’t even give me some excuse about morning breath, baby. I don’t care,” he said bringing her lips to his.

 

She finally opened for him after a bit of coaxing. He didn’t care, he just wanted to kiss his girlfriend now that he could. Waking up next to her was a dream he never wanted to wake up from. She rolled him onto his back and wasted no time straddling his hips. She was still bent in half, kissing his face before she straightened and peeled off the shirt she’d been wearing. She pulled her hair from around her shoulders and into the extra hair tie she kept around her wrist.

 

Jughead watched as her bare chest rose and fell as she worked, the slight roll of her hips just enough to tease, but not enough to torture. His hands found her waist as she adjusted herself onto him and took him inside of her. She eased down, her head thrown back as she did. He couldn’t help the groan that pulled from his chest as she continued to lazily roll her hips, her fingers scratching at his chest.

 

He sat up slightly; needing to kiss her, feel her lips against hers, whisper sweet words of love and adoration into them while their bodies were one. Before long, his thumb rubbed at her clit with just enough pressure to bring her over the edge, her moans a dull roar mixed with his hums of gratitude and pleasure.

 

She kissed his forehead before swinging her leg from around his waist and sliding off the bed.

 

“Go back to bed, sweetheart. I’ll be right back,” she whispered as she kissed him again.

 

All he could do was hum his appreciation. Before long, she was back in bed, nestled into the Betty-shaped spot at his side.

 

“Best morning I’ve had in a very long time,” he mumbled as he fell back to sleep.

.

.

.


	10. Finding a Way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're so close to the end and we're _so not ready_. This story has been a ride to write, and we are so happy that we got to share it with you readers. Thank you so much for your continued support; it means the world to us. 
> 
> Enjoy our second to last chapter! Love always.

* * *

* * *

Jughead woke up first. While Betty slept on, he watched her features twitch and thought with a smile how small she looked next to him, how at peace and delicate she was in his arms. It was the opposite of her larger-than-life personality, her commanding-when-needed voice and her gigantic heart. It was pure gold, despite her indiscretions.

 

He watched her nose crinkle, her eyes flutter open and the smile emerge as soon as she registered he was there.

 

“Morning again,” she whispered as she snuggled closer.

 

He kissed her forehead and brushed a rogue hair from her cheek. He was about to say good morning back when he was interrupted by the rumbling of her stomach.

 

“Hungry?” he asked with a chuckle, and she buried her face further into his chest.

 

“We got back and didn't have dinner,” she tried to reason.

 

“Would you have rathered we did?”

 

“Not a chance,” she said, stretching up to kiss his cheek.

 

“Why don't we have a proper date, then? I'll pick you up in a few hours.”

 

As he climbed out of bed, she looked up at him, her golden hair askew and questions swirling in her eyes.  _ Even more beautiful than I could have imagined. _

 

“I'm going to shower and run a few errands. Feel free to use whatever you need and if there’s a knock at the door around two, answer it.” He winked.

 

He watched her for another moment as she stretched and rolled around his bed like she had always been there. He was sure the coconut and floral scent would linger and for the first time, he was sure he didn't regret this. Regret her.

 

Jughead showered quickly and returned to put on his usual attire of dark jeans, a gray t-shirt and a flannel around his waist to mask the dangling suspenders. He ran his fingers through his hair and kissed the still tired Betty goodbye, reminding her to be ready for two o’clock.

 

As he walked out the door, he heard her grumble about having to leave the warm haven that was his bed. He laughed to himself as he grabbed his spare key from the hook and swung his denim jacket over his shoulders.

 

He made his way down the busy afternoon sidewalk toward the mechanic to pick up his truck to take Betty out. It wouldn't be proper if he asked her to drive. The transaction went as painlessly as it ever does at a questionably legitimate mechanic, and once he had his vehicle back in his possession, his first stop was the flower shop he'd walked by countless times but never had a reason to stop in.

 

Not until now. Not until he had a beautiful blonde in his apartment. Not until he had Betty.

 

He walked around the corner store, browsing the multitude of arrangements and stems and colors. It was all a little overwhelming to him. The elderly woman, whom he presumed owned the shop, peered around a row of pale pink hydrangeas.

 

“Can I help you find something special, young man?” she asked him, adjusting her glasses further up the bridge of her nose.

 

“I'm looking for something for my girlfriend.”

 

“Special occasion?”

 

“No. I just want to surprise her.” He could feel the heat on his cheeks. He wondered when he became such a sap but realized maybe he always was, just never had anyone to direct it toward. He wanted to show Betty all the beauty the world had to offer. This was only the beginning.

 

“Well, what do you want them to say? What kind of message do you want them to send?”

 

He thought about it for probably longer than he should have, but he wasn’t sure how a flower could say: _ you make the colors of my world brighter. I love you, even though you scare the everloving shit out of me. I never thought anyone could love me until you popped into my life and I don’t think I'll ever be able to find the right words to tell you. I’m ready to jump if you are _ . 

 

He said as much to the nice old woman.

 

She tapped her fingers against her chin in thought before he watched an idea finally flicker across her glassy gray eyes. She scurried off, leaving Jughead standing among the selection of wildflowers.

 

She came back a few moments later, shuffling in his direction as his hands grazed the petals of a flower he had seen thousands of times before never knew the name of. In her hands, she held a bundle of red and yellow tulips with a few sprigs of white violets.

 

“I think this might be just what you're looking for.” She smiled earnestly at him as he took the ribboned bouquet from her frail hands.

 

They walked to the front, he paid for the flowers and then was on his way to pick up his date. If he was going to take her on a real date, he was going to do it right.

 

He was undoubtedly nervous. His hands shook and tightened around the bouquet of flowers as he made his way back up the stairs to his apartment. He took a few deep breaths before knocking on his own door.

 

He stood a few steps back from the door, waiting with bated breath for his girlfriend of six months to greet him. He'd already kissed her, already snaked his hands around her waist and tangled his fingers into her hair. He already knew her secrets, the dark parts of her that would drop any man to his knees in fear. But he knew the light of her now, too. The way she looked completely at ease in his arms, the flush of her cheeks when she was nervous and the shine in her eyes when she came around him.

 

Thirteen slow, controlled breaths. That's how long it took for her to come to the door, and he swore his heart stopped just for a beat when she did. The smile on her face was enough to steal the air from his lungs. He swore to himself then and there that he'd do just about anything to keep it there.

 

“Wow,” he whispered, so many more eloquent words stuck in his throat and drowning on the tip of his tongue. He watched pink tinge her cheeks as she nervously played with her hair.

 

“What are you doing? This is your apartment.” She laughed as she sidestepped to let him in.

 

He pulled his hand from behind his back and presented the flowers to her. That smile reappeared on her face, the one he never wanted to be without. She took the bouquet from him carefully, bringing it to her nose to smell it.

 

“These are beautiful, Juggie. Thank you.”

 

“They’re nothing compared to you,” he said, leaning in to kiss her cheek. He heard her giggle under her breath before she walked away, wandering into his kitchen where she opened cabinets to find something to put them in until they returned.

 

“Any ideas of where you want to go to lunch?” He called to her over the sound of the faucet. He knew he didn’t have a vase, so he was curious to see what she was using to contain the flowers. A tall water glass, he learned when he followed her into the kitchen. 

 

“You’re the one who asked me out, honey. Shouldn’t you have planned that part out already?”

 

“Well, yeah, sure. But I didn’t know if you wanted something particular. I know sometimes you have cravings for specific things. I didn’t want to disappoint if you already had something in mind.” He shrugged.

 

“It’s so nice to have someone actually listen when I talk,” she said with a sigh. She was shaking her head, and he was almost sure that he wasn’t supposed to hear that little musing, but he did and his heart swelled at his recall. “But now that you mention it, there’s this little cafe a few blocks from work that I’ve been dying to try.”

 

“Wherever you want, baby.”

 

\--

 

The cafe by the OCME wasn’t as bad as he expected. On the outside, it seemed trendy and far too hip for someone like him, but it wasn’t altogether unbearable.

 

Maybe it was because for the first time he felt like he was in a normal relationship, not one strictly defined by text messages or a website. A real, human relationship where he could hold his girlfriend’s hand and kiss her whenever he wanted (which, for the record, was always). They were a  _ normal _ couple.

 

As they walked out, hand in hand, she turned to him with a small glimmer in her eye that he couldn’t quite place.

 

“Okay, so don’t be mad.” He watched as she pulled her hand from his and wrung them in front of her carefully. “I only wanted to come here because it’s close to work and I need to pick up some files to finish working on before I go back for my next shift.”

 

“Wow. Am I that bad of a date you’d rather go to work than spend more time with me?” he asked in mock offense, sending a small wink her way to let her know he was only joking. She squinted her eyes at him and knocked his shoulder as they walked toward her office.

 

\--

 

“Wait here. I’m going to grab the files real quick and then I’ll be right back,” she said before pecking him on the cheek. They were in a small waiting room, sterile and white, standing in front of the  _ AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY _ door.

 

“Can’t I see your office?” He pouted. He tried his best at puppy dog eyes, but he knew they’d never really worked for him.

 

“I don’t want to risk my co-workers seeing you and asking a shit-ton of questions.”

 

“Too late, Elizabeth.”

 

A slender woman with fiery red hair appeared in the doorway, a smug smile teasing at her lips. He squinted quickly to read the badge clipped to the lapel of her lab coat. Cheryl Blossom. He recognized the name—the irritating, bossy, bitchy, yet fiercely loyal anthropologist.

 

“Let the inquisition begin.” Cheryl caught Jughead’s eye and smirked as she snapped her gum. “Kevin!” she called down the hallway.

 

Betty groaned and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Cheryl, I’m not in the mood. I’m not feeling well, and I just came to grab some work—”

 

Before Betty could finish her thought, a tall, broad man appeared next to Cheryl and his eyes immediately fell to Jughead. He assumed, by his glittering, perfect grin and his perfectly set hair, that this was Kevin Keller—Betty’s closest work friend, the gentle gossip, office clown and toxicologist. Jughead noticed Kevin’s obvious appraisal of him and he suddenly felt very uncomfortable.

 

He shuffled his feet under Kevin’s sharp gaze, trying not to visibly shrink into himself. He knew this would happen eventually, but he didn’t think he’d feel so violated in the process.

 

“Look what the sicky dragged in!” Kevin sung, finally tearing his gaze from Jughead’s frame to acknowledge Betty. “Isn’t he a steaming cup of artisanal dark roast coffee?”

 

Jughead scrunched his nose and glanced at Betty’s flushed face. He’d never heard that analogy before. Tall drink of water, sure, but a steaming cup of coffee? That was entirely new. I _s this why women hate being catcalled?_

 

“So,  _ this  _ is what you’ve been nursing in bed, Elizabeth?” Cheryl laughed haughtily. “Kevin told me you were sick, but he didn’t specify with what.”

 

“She’s lovesick, Cher.”

 

“Guys, please,” Betty said, cringing. Jughead watched the pink deepen high on her cheekbones. It looked like she wanted to run and hide.

 

“Well, don’t be rude, Dr. Cooper. Introduce us.” The pair of coworkers stood patiently awaiting Betty’s introduction. Jughead took the time to conduct his own appraisal. They were just as intimidating as he thought they’d be. Especially Cheryl.

 

_ I could be friends with Kevin. He seems alright. _

 

Betty sighed and shook her head, but she placed her hand on Jughead’s elbow. “This is Jughead. Jones. My boyfriend,” she finished with a smile.

 

“ _ Swoon _ ,” Kevin gasped, then moved forward to extend his hand. “It’s very nice to finally meet you, Jughead.”

 

“Likewise,” Jughead muttered. He wasn’t sure what Betty had told Kevin or Cheryl about him, but if she did at all, it must have meant something.

 

“You should know, Jug Head,” Cheryl said from the doorway, not having made an effort to extend the same pleasantries as Kevin. Her arms were crossed on her chest. “Our Elizabeth is a _ very _ strong woman who knows her way around a scalpel. One misstep and—”

 

“ _Oh my god,_ _Cheryl,”_ Betty interjected. Jughead glanced over at her, her green eyes were wide and she shot him a look that seemed to say _sorry_ and a few other things he wasn’t sure of. “Shut the fuck up.”

 

Jughead threw his arm over Betty’s shoulder and turned back to face Cheryl. “Oh, I’m fully aware. I can promise I’m always on my best behavior around Betty.”

 

“Betty?” Kevin said with lifted brows. “Who is this _Betty_?”

 

Jughead could see that he said the wrong thing. He gripped at her shoulder in preemptive apology. She looked up at him and winked.

 

“Well,  _ Betty _ ,” Kevin started, “if you’re ‘sick,’ why are you here?”

 

“I’m out for a few more days, and I thought I’d grab some paperwork to do from home. Unless, all of a sudden, I’m not allowed to do that.”

 

Jughead recognized the sassy tone and watched as Kevin squirmed under her glare. “Yeah, no. Take what you gotta do. Just leave the Reynolds file. I’m almost done with that one.”

 

Betty turned back to Jughead and kissed him on the cheek, whispering she’d be right back into his ear. He watched as she walked further into the office and rounded a corner, leaving him alone with Kevin and Cheryl.

 

He could see Cheryl surveying him. She shrugged her shoulders with a small, audible hum and walked away, presumably back to assembling a skeleton. Kevin on the other hand, lingered.

 

Despite Cheryl’s absence and Kevin’s ultimately friendly demeanor, Jughead couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable. It had been a while since he was around anyone—other than Archie, Veronica, or Betty—for longer than thirty seconds to a minute. He shoved his hands in his pockets and picked at the lining until Kevin broke the silence.

 

“Listen, I don’t know how much you know about Lizzy, but she’s got the purest heart of anyone I’ve ever met and she keeps it pretty guarded. So if she let you in, it’s a big deal. She doesn’t date. I can’t even remember if I’ve ever heard her talk about anyone special in her life.” 

 

Kevin fiddled with the pen in his pocket, looking over his shoulder at the sound of footsteps behind him. 

 

“If she asks, tell her I gave you the best friend speech. The one where I threaten you if you hurt her. But, between you and me, I don’t really think it’s necessary.” Kevin winked in his direction before clearing his throat.

 

Jughead was about to respond when he spotted Betty’s blonde waves walking in their direction. He settled for an amicable nod, reinforcing his understanding of what Kevin had just said as he felt an unexpected weight lift from his shoulders. He didn’t realize how much he wanted Betty’s coworkers to like him when he stepped into the suite, but once he was there, it meant the world to him. He was part of her life and so were they; it would just be easier if they all got along.

 

“Ready to go, honey?” Betty chirped from over Kevin’s shoulder.

 

Jughead reached his arm out for her bag, the one he presumed was filled with medical files and other paperwork she had to get done over the course of a few days. She raised her eyebrows at him, questioning his movements and he took the bag from her shoulder and placed it on his own.

 

“Get out of here, you crazy kids,” Kevin chuckled. “And feel better,  _ Betty. _ ”

 

Jughead heard her low chuckle as she slipped her hand into his and led him away from the offices as fast as she could. Once they were outside, he stopped, pulling her into him for a chaste kiss.

 

“I don’t see you as a Lizzy. Doesn’t really fit.”

 

She snickered and rolled her eyes. “Only Kevin calls me that. I gave up asking him to stop a while back. He  _ insists _ it works.”

 

Jughead cocked his head to the side and looked at her in all of her glory. She was the most dressed down—well, apart from not dressed at all—that he’d ever seen her, and she still took his breath away.  _ His _ Betty.

 

“Can I ask why  _ everyone _ doesn’t just call you Betty? You don’t have to tell me, it’s just a little strange to keep it a secret.”

 

“It’s not that it’s a secret, per se,” Betty said, leading the way back to his truck, her arm folded into his. “It’s a childhood nickname. I guess it had been so long since I was Betty that I missed it. My mother always called me Elizabeth and I  _ hated _ it. But I go by it now because, I have to admit, it is more... professional.”

 

“If you hate it when your mother calls you that, does that mean I have to stop, too?” he asked, suddenly recalling every time he’d called her by her proper name. Snippets of her naked body came to the forefront of his mind.

 

“Oh, no, no. Definitely not.” He watched the rose-colored blush grace her cheeks; she must have been recalling the same memories he was. “It’s different when you say it.”

 

“Well, alright then,  _ Elizabeth _ . Shall we get you back to my place?” he growled in her ear as the truck came into their line of sight.

 

\--

 

Family dinner had been pushed several weeks, instead of days, at Veronica’s amicable insistence to wait until Betty could be present. Work at the OCME had picked up again, and Jughead had resumed his writing, so the two of them were hesitant to waste any of their spare time. Hanging out with Veronica and Archie surely wasn’t as enjoyable as their alone time.

 

It had been seven months since they started talking and subsequently dating, and despite the rocky few weeks, they were somehow finding their way. They went out for dinner occasionally, or Betty would go to his apartment and cook for them. They’d snuggle on the couch watching movies or television—comedies, mostly, to alleviate some of the darkness that characterized each of their lives. They’d lose themselves in each other at night, allowing the pleasant sensations to overwrite the memories of less pleasant ones.

 

They were, by some degree, a  _ normal  _ couple, and they were ridiculously happy. But their difficult conversations were more complex than the average couple’s. Their disagreements were lined with thick tension and unspeakable words that hung in the air ready to be hurled. And yet, considering all that had happened, they were doing okay. They were managing, focusing on their strong connection and their love for each other.

 

Betty had no idea where they’d be if it weren’t for that love.

 

She realized as she flitted around her bedroom, digging through her dresser and closet in search of something nice to wear for dinner, one of the more normal aspects of their relationship. She had done many terrifying things in her life, things that had plagued her and kept her awake far into the morning hours, and yet she was nervous about  _ dinner. Dinner with Archie and Veronica Andrews. _

 

She was nervous to get to know Jughead’s friends. His best friend turned quasi-brother and Archie’s wife was all Jughead had left resembling a family, aside from her, and she needed to make a good first—well, second—impression. Their relationship was already burdened by quite a bit, and she couldn’t imagine his best friends’ disapproval of her being added to the pile.

 

She groaned as she pulled out hanger after hanger of business casual attire. Her wardrobe was entirely appropriate for work and not much else, seeing as she hardly bothered to purchase anything for other social events. Pencil skirts, black slacks, and boring pastel sweaters or collared shirts were not fitting for a semi-formal dinner. They were not appropriate for this special occasion.  _ Jughead was wearing a tie, for god sakes. _

 

Betty finally settled on a black asymmetrical dress that secured itself with a thin strap across her collarbones and over her shoulder. It was borderline too revealing, but knowing what she did of Veronica, she imagined that the woman would applaud her courage. And if Archie didn’t like her personality, at least he would like her chest.

 

And at the  _ very least _ , Jughead would definitely appreciate it.

 

She fastened a string of pearls she had picked up at her favorite vintage store around her neck, smiling at her reflection in the full-length mirror. To finish the look, she slipped on a pair of black strappy heels and secured the ties up and around her ankles.

 

She heard her front door open and close, so she hastily painted a layer of rouge across her lips. Jughead appeared in the mirror, standing in the doorway of her bedroom grinning as she smacked her lips together.

 

“God, Betts, you look fantastic,” he said. She turned in time to watch his Adam’s apple bob and realized she had to return the compliment.

 

He wore a wool peacoat, black as night and unbuttoned. Underneath, she could see red and black checkered print, probably the richest colour she had ever seen on him, and black dress pants. A black slim tie was the most surprising addition to the outfit, not because it was there—he promised it, after all—but because it was knotted perfectly and secured with a pin. She gaped at him openly before she remembered how to close her mouth.

 

“You are…” Betty swallowed thickly as she moved across the room to him, “ _ really sexy.” _

 

His eyes widened. “Really?”

 

She nodded as she laid her hands on his waist, and then allowed them to explore up his hard abdomen. She finished at his chest, slipping the tie through her fingers. She chuckled at the expensive fabric. It was so unlike him. “Yeah, who the fuck dressed you?”

 

He laughed, and it was the most beautiful, carefree sound. “Me. You know, I have learned over the years how to present myself.”

 

Betty hummed and touched the perfect Windsor knot at the hollow of his throat. “I love it, honey. You look so handsome. Except...” She forced her fingers into the knot to pull it loose. “...This is much more you.”

 

Jughead looked down at his new appearance and smiled. He gathered her hands in his and raised them to his mouth, pressing a kiss against her knuckles.

 

“You know me so well,” he said against her hands.

 

She winked. “Let’s get to dinner before I ruin my reputation with your friends.”

 

\--

 

The restaurant Veronica had chosen was by far the most luxurious place Betty had eaten at since she attended Cooper family dinners as a teenager. As soon as she walked through the dark, mahogany door that Jughead held open for her, the smell of rich, expensive food and wine overtook her senses. She inhaled deeply through her nose.

 

She heard Jughead’s brief conversation with the hostess as she scanned the large room for his friends. She finally spotted them at the same moment Jughead’s hand landed on her back and began leading her toward their table.

 

Veronica grinned as they approached, her wide and bright smile visible even from a distance. She stood and clapped her hands in excitement as Betty watched her take in the two of them, dressed to the nines.

 

The brunette looked like a million bucks. Her dress was strapless, long, and white with an intricate golden pattern. The bodice was fitted perfectly, extenuating her curves. From her ears dangled a collection of tiny gold ropes that hung all the way to her sharp collarbones. Her eyes—dark, yet somehow still illuminating—were wide and happy, emphasized by her slight eye makeup and her pulled-back hairstyle.

 

“Good evening, friends,” she said, still beaming as she regarded the two of them, “You are a vision, Elizabeth. I  _ adore  _ your pearls. And Forsythe, I guess you look pretty dashing too, although your tie could be tightened.”

 

Betty fingered her necklace and glanced at Jughead just as his lips twitched. Whether the involuntary reaction was due to the use of his full name or the jab at his tie, she wasn’t sure. She rested her hand gently on his back.

 

“You’re lucky I’m here, Veronica. I have a deadline with my publisher,” he answered, even-toned.

 

Archie cleared his throat then, and Betty finally noticed his presence in the seat across from Veronica. She supposed he looked good, as well. “That’s a compliment coming from her, Jug,” Archie said as he shot a pointed look toward his wife.

 

Veronica ignored him and gestured toward the open seat next to her. Betty smiled lightly and rubbed Jughead’s back before taking her spot next to Veronica. Jughead sat down across from her.

 

“Hey, I said I would wear a tie. I didn’t say  _ how _ .” He caught Betty’s eye across the table and smirked.

 

“I suppose I can expect nothing more,” Veronica sighed as she picked up her glass of wine, swirling it. “I hope you two don’t mind, we ordered a bottle of  _ Luce _ . Daddy went to a wine tasting when he was in Italy, and he said the body is  _ to die for _ .”

 

Jughead chortled. “Those words came out of Hiram’s mouth?”

 

Veronica sipped her wine carefully before responding. “Perhaps that’s my version of it,” she said in a teasing tone. She lifted the bottle and turned to Betty. “Elizabeth, would you like some?”

 

“Sure.” She smiled at the offer and moved her glass closer. Though Veronica was obviously a woman with luxurious tastes and a strong attitude— not at all like the people she usually gravitated toward—Betty liked her. She liked how she tried to keep her friends close, despite their busy schedules. She liked how she teased Jughead—clearly with love. She liked the genuine smile that graced her lips, despite the fact that in Betty’s experience, genuine smiles often eluded people of high status. “You can call me Betty, by the way.”

 

“Betty,” Veronica repeated, raising her glass of wine, “That is such a lovely, quaint name.”

 

Betty moved to clink her glass with Veronica’s. “Thank you,” she said, raising the glass to her lips.

 

As she put her glass back to the table, she peered over again at her handsome date. His face was relaxed, his eyes soft. He gazed at her in a way that made her face flush.

 

The waitress interrupted the moment, coming to the table to take their orders. She hadn’t even glanced at the menu, but Veronica took it upon herself to choose starters and entrees for each of them, assuring them it was  _ on her dime _ and that she knew the best dishes anyways.

 

As the waitress left the table, Veronica wasted no time diving into conversation.

 

“So, Betty, Jughead told us you’re a pathologist? That is  _ fascinating _ .”

 

Betty laughed at her enthusiasm. “Yeah, thanks. I honestly love it.”

 

Archie spoke up from across the table. “Isn’t it like… super gross?”

 

Jughead rolled his eyes at the redhead at the same moment Veronica clucked her tongue. Betty had to suppress another laugh. Disgust was a common reaction people had to her field of work, and it didn’t surprise her one bit that it came from Archie. 

 

“Oh, definitely. I see some pretty bad things, hear some pretty sad stories. But someone has to do it, and I’m glad that it can be me.”

 

“She’s amazing at it, too,” Jughead said, drawing her gaze to him. “You should hear some of her stories. They’re wild.”

 

“We would love that,” Veronica crooned.

 

Archie nodded, eyes wide. “Cool.”

 

Betty smiled and sipped at her wine, looking back at Jughead’s proud expression. She would never get over how adored he could make her feel. Once glance alone sparked a tingle in the pit of her stomach.

 

Even after all they’d been through, he loved her for who she was.

 

She grinned at him from across the table. “The other day I did an autopsy and found  _ no blood  _ inside the body,” she said, launching into one of the more interesting cases of the week.

 

Jughead smirked—he’d heard the story already.

 

“Usually, I can find blood in the heart at least if the rest has bled out, but the body was dry. And there were barely any external wounds. It took forever, but eventually, I figured out that the blood must have soaked into the bone marrow where I couldn’t find it.”

 

Veronica gaped. “That’s possible?”

 

She nodded and glanced at Archie, who had actually gone pale. “The medulla in the brain is responsible for autonomic nervous system responses, like blood vessel dilation, and it was completely destroyed at the time of death. So I can estimate that when that happened, all the vessels just went limp and soft, kind of like cooked spaghetti.” She grinned at her analogy, and the look it garnered from her listeners. “The blood supply went to the spaces in the bone tissue, and that’s why I couldn’t find it.”

 

Archie swallowed thickly and Jughead laughed loudly at his friend. Veronica just stared at her, finally speechless.

 

“You’re fucking brilliant, baby,” Jughead said, winking at her, and nudging her foot under the table. She laughed lightly.

 

Veronica cleared her throat and grinned. “She is. It seems you’ve met your match in doom and gloom, Jughead.”

 

“Nah.” He shook his head and caught Betty’s eye. “She’s not doom and gloom. She’s my sunshine.”

 

It took all her strength, the wine, the promise of impending food, and the two other people at the table with them to keep her from grabbing Jughead’s hand and getting them the hell out of there. She wanted nothing more than to just wrap herself in him, or kiss him all over his entire face.

 

But she would settle for whispering  _ I love you  _ across the table, and the certainty that he’d come back to her place later.

 

The starters were delivered and cleared as the four of them chatted. Veronica gushed about her clothing line, how well it was already doing, but also spoke affectionately and passionately about the home she’d opened for homeless youth. Archie griped about the program he was in at the Manhattan School of Music, that he didn’t know studying music would be so hard, but also mentioned it was worth it if he could provide inexpensive lessons for children. Through the conversation, it was easy for Betty to understand why Jughead had chosen these two to surround himself with. To make up his new family.

 

They were good, kind, ultimately purposeful people. They had drive. They had intelligence, talent. They weren’t perfect, but they were still completely unlike the actual family Jughead had been born into. They supported him and loved him.

 

She felt honored that they would welcome her, too.

 

The entrees also came and went, as well as another bottle of wine, before Veronica suggested the four of them take the party to  _ La Bonne Nuit _ , an elegant lounge a few blocks away.

 

Though Betty was ready to go home and jump Jughead’s bones, she wasn’t opposed to continuing the night with his friends. She was actually having fun, and she remembered somewhere in the back of her wine-hazed mind that Cheryl had mentioned the place once.

 

But she looked over at Jughead to gauge his expression, and his eyes were lidded, pitch-black and locked on her. The ache in her stomach intensified.

 

“I think we’ll sit this one out,” Betty voiced to the eager Veronica next to her, though still staring at Jughead. “I’ve had a lovely time, but I’ve got an early morning tomorrow, unfortunately.”

 

She dimly heard Veronica’s deflated response, and then got to her feet. Jughead followed her lead and immediately reached out for her hand.

 

She felt Veronica wrap her in a one-armed hug—it was all that was possible considering Jughead’s relentless grip on her other side—and bumped Archie’s extended fist. A goodbye surely slipped through her lips, as well as Jughead’s, and the two of them quickly walked away from the table and out into the night air.

 

She could feel his lingering touches at the small of her back as they began their slow walk to find a cab. The way his fingertips dragged across her skin, coupled with the look in his eye and his kind words over dinner, she could barely wait until they got back to her apartment.

 

At the closest alleyway, she pulled him into her, pressing her back against the brick. His lips moved languidly against hers. The heat was instant; it had been building since they’d left for dinner. She’d known as soon as she saw him dressed to the nines that she wouldn’t be able to resist him for long.

 

Her arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer still as her tongue brushed against his. She lost track of time, lost in him, not caring about the people passing the entryway of the alley, and that they weren’t hidden from view. She just  _ wanted him.  _ Desperately. In that moment. Truthfully, forever.

 

He pulled away hesitantly and a whimper escaped her throat. He smiled in response.

 

“As much as I love this,” he said, “I think it would be better suited for home.”

 

She nodded and swept her tongue across her lip once as she gazed at him. “My place is closer.”

 

He snatched her hand that lay against his chest and pulled her out of the alley onto the sidewalk. A cab was mercifully parked a few feet away, like the universe had placed it there and forced it to idle in the busiest part of the city that never slept just for them.

 

Jughead rapped on the window before opening the door for her to slide in. Hands still joined, he followed her into the dark backseat and pulled her tightly into his side. She was so focused on his warmth, the feel of his body against hers, the anticipation driving her mad, that she barely heard as he rattled off her address to the driver.

 

She laid her head on his shoulder to get closer to him, to be able to feel his breath on her face and smell his familiar scent. His hand held hers in his lap, his thumb tracing large, sweeping circles across her skin.

 

She was trying to focus on the city flying by outside the window instead of the ache at the bottom of her abdomen when the driver turned on the radio, and the voice of a news reporter blasted through the tinny speakers.

 

_Yonkers_ _police have finally identified the body found in the Hudson River_ _as Miss Penny Peabody, a former resident of Riverdale, and a known participant in state-wide gang activity. Police are still reportedly investigating the circumstances of Peabody’s death, but inside sources have strongly implied that a closing of the case is imminent and that no foul play is suspected._

 

Jughead’s hand stilled, then tightened on hers. She lifted her head from his shoulder.

 

His expression was indecipherable as he gazed down at her. The arousal in his eyes had been replaced with something else, something she’d never before seen.

 

_ Guilt? Regret? _

 

He didn’t let go of her hand as the cab continued to her place. He didn’t let go as he threw a bill toward the driver. He held tightly still as they slid out of the cab onto the street. His grip only seemed to tighten as they made their way up the stairs silently.

 

She finally disentangled her fingers from his to unlock her door. They crossed the threshold quietly, and the click of the lock sliding back into place seemed to resound through the small space.

 

She watched as he removed his coat and hung it carefully on a hook, his eyes still haunted.

 

“Jug.”

 

He looked up at her and the deep sapphire pools she stared into almost took her breath away. She felt a shock run through her.

 

“Are you okay?”

 

He stared at her, tilted his head, dropped his gaze to his shoes. She could tell he was mulling something over. She just didn’t know what.

 

She reached out to touch him, but he caught her hand. He held it lightly, stroking it before he pressed it to his chest.

 

“I’m more than okay.”

 

Relief coursed through her violently as his words registered and his eyes met hers again.

 

“We’re together. We’re safe. And I trust you. Wholeheartedly. With everything.”

 

She didn’t have time to speak before he pulled her to his chest, before he curled her body perfectly into his. He didn’t give her a chance to respond. Not as he pressed his lips desperately to hers. Not as they removed and discarded each piece of clothing, forgotten on the floor of the hall all the way to her bedroom. Not as they collapsed onto her perfectly-made bed, completely wrinkling the sheets. All coherent thought left her brain as they loved each other to release.

 

She didn’t answer his sentiment until much later when they were both satiated and close to sleep.

 

“No more, Jug,” she whispered in the dark of her bedroom, into the crook of his neck. “I won’t risk this again. I won’t risk you.”

 

She felt his answering hum against her cheek, then the shape of his words, barely breathed.  

 

_ “My Betty.” _

_. _

_. _

_. _


	11. Open Book

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you guys believe it? This is the final chapter. I know, I know, we don't want it to end either, but we just really want to thank everyone for the unbelievable amount of support we've gotten over the last eleven weeks with this! We are so incredibly grateful for all of you, your comments, and messages. 
> 
> Overwhelmed does not even begin to cover how we feel. So thank you all, from the bottom of our hearts. Now... we hope you enjoy the final chapter of this crazy ride. Thanks for coming along. xxxxx

* * *

* * *

 

Jughead hated keeping secrets from Betty. They had promised each other, after everything they’d been through, to always be honest with the other. It wasn’t that his secret was bad, or life-threatening or even damning,  but he still didn’t like keeping it.

 

They were approaching their one-year anniversary when he’d finally finished his collection of short stories. The same collection he’d started when he and Betty started talking, the ones he wasn’t ashamed to put his name on, the ones she inspired.

 

He had talked to Ethel and the rest of his publishing team to see if they were a good fit for the company, and to his surprise, they were. More than that, his publishers _actually_ liked them. After a few months of back and forth, they decided on artwork and a title, found the the right editor—a tiny spitfire named Toni Topaz—and even scheduled a release party at the behest of Veronica Lodge, who, at the time, was the only one who knew about the grand gesture he was terrified to present to the world.

 

Veronica was the one who had convinced him to go forward with it. He had asked her for coffee, not wanting prying ears—Archie’s specifically—to overhear what he needed her advice on. She had read a few snippets he’d sent her way and urged him to talk to Ethel, so he did. The team was delighted to see something different out of him. Something real and honest and raw, something so full of emotion they nearly burst when they told him the publishing house had agreed to work with him on it.

 

He swore Veronica to secrecy. Operation _Surprise Betty with a Super Sappy Book Dedication_ was underway, even if it did need a shorter title. Though he hated to admit it, Veronica was becoming someone he genuinely cared about. She was no longer just Archie’s wife—she was his friend.

 

They’d meet every few weeks to discuss progress and even established a secret code for talking about it in mixed company.

 

As the months passed and the event grew closer, he knew he’d have to tell Betty about it, not only because he _needed_ her there to get through what was probably the largest social engagement he’d ever been to, but because it was all for her. He wanted her to be surprised, so he told her the event was meant to celebrate the release of a Tunny Wilkins mystery novel.

 

She was skeptical, he knew that much for certain. He always shared Deirdre’s story with her; they’d continued their storytime routine until he could no longer keep up the charade. She could tell he wasn’t as into it as he usually was, but she never pushed him.

 

He appreciated her for that—and for so many other things—but he knew he couldn’t keep a secret from his smart-as-a-whip girlfriend for long.

 

\--

 

Betty was good at reading people. She developed the skill growing up in her childhood home, tiptoeing around the volatile Alice Cooper, and her career choice had only sharpened it. She had a keen eye for detail, for distinguishing between similarities, for picking up on the small nuances of people’s movement and speech.

 

She knew Jughead was keeping something from her.

 

She knew it when his mystery novel starring Deirdre Byrne turned suddenly vague and inconsistent. During their read-throughs, Jughead would share plot points that never resolved themselves. He would stutter through weak and purposeless dialogue. Either whatever he was hiding was causing his distinct writing voice to slip, or the story had simply become uninspired.

 

She could’ve found out, snooped through his things or just openly confronted him, but she wasn’t all that worried. Whatever it was he wasn’t telling her, there was no way it could be as bad as the secret she’d kept from him, the secret that had almost torn their early relationship apart. She supposed she deserved to be the one kept in the dark for once. At least she had the benefit of being sure of one thing Jughead previously hadn’t had the comfort of knowing back when she was lying to him.

 

He loved her—hopelessly so—and she loved him right back.

 

She’d let him keep this thing to himself until he was ready to share again. The time would come.

 

\--

 

A few weeks before the release party, he finally approached her about it.

 

“Hey, baby,” he called from the kitchen where he was pouring each of them a glass of wine. “Can you come out here?”

 

He heard a low grumble from his bedroom before the door creaked open. Betty’s hair was tied up in a haphazard bun and she was wearing only one of his old, worn t-shirts from his high school days—the dark green one with the nearly invisible _S_. It was her favorite, he’d noticed. It was the one she always gravitated toward, probably because every time she did, he complimented how bright her eyes were.

 

“What’s up, honey? I’m almost wrapped up on this case file. I want to finish tonight so we can catch up on that show we started the other night.”

 

“Two weeks from Saturday, what’re you doing?”

 

He watched as the gears started turning in her head. He knew it was an odd, random question to ask, but he needed to know that she was free.

 

“I don’t think anything is going on. That night is usually drinks with Kev and Cher, but that can be rescheduled. Why?”

 

“There’s this thing that night. I want you to come with me,” he said as he rubbed the back of his neck nervously. He was transported back to early in their relationship when he would get flustered easily and make a fool of himself. Not that he didn’t do that now, too, but it was a more common occurrence then.

 

“What kind of thing?”

 

“A work party. Well, more specifically, a release party… for me.”

 

“You said the release of Deirdre’s story got postponed because you missed the deadline.”

 

“I know, but it looks like I made it work after all. Do you,” he swallowed his nerves in a thick gulp before continuing. “Do you wanna come with me?”

 

“I’m sure that can be arranged. I know you hate big parties. Doesn’t the company know that?”

 

“Yeah, but they’re being very insistent. They say it’s important for my image or something,” he shrugged it off, trying to play it as cool as possible.

 

“Of course I’ll go with you, Juggie.”

 

“Excellent. I have to fill a table, so if you want, why don’t you invite Kevin, Cheryl and Reggie from the office? I’m sure they could use a fun night out.”

  
Betty eyed him, confused. He knew he never invited her friends out. Well, not never, but very rarely. He watched as she cocked her head to the side, trying to figure him out, but his face was neutral, giving nothing away.

 

“Okay,” she acquiesced. “I’ll ask them.”

 

\--

 

It was one of those rare cases that required all hands on deck. Most deaths required one pathologist, maybe two, and likely a toxicologist for good measure, but this time Betty and Reggie, the general ME’s, along with Kevin and Cheryl, gathered themselves in the suite around a _literal car_ that had been placed smack in the middle of the room.

 

The whole sedan was a huge, stinking disaster of a crime scene, and the NYPD had delivered it right into the loading dock, completely undocumented.

 

“How the fuck is this our job?” Cheryl scowled at the mess in front of them, nose crinkled at the awful smell.

 

“Because there’s a dead body in it, Cher,” Reggie responded, scratching his head and peering into the trunk of the car, which was left ajar due to the arm that hung out of it.

 

Betty snapped on her sterile latex gloves and moved forward to raise the lid of the trunk. Immediately, the smell of a decomposed body filled the room and caused her eyes to burn.

 

“Mother of god,” Kevin choked and turned away to grab a face mask.

 

“Still, I don’t understand. This is a _live crime scene._ They didn’t even bag any evidence!” Cheryl pinched her nose and pointed to a weapon that was still wrapped in the corpse’s hand. Betty grimaced. That would be a bitch to pry away.

 

“Let’s just get it over with,” she interjected. There was no point in standing around, holding their noses, griping about the inadequacies of a few detectives. They had a job to do, and it was to find out how and why this person died.

 

They’d bagged exactly 45 pieces of evidence before they were able to carefully move the crumpled body from the trunk to the table. Cheryl and Reggie refocused their efforts on the autopsy, while Kevin and Betty continued to comb the car for evidence, trace or tangible.

 

Betty was slipping a pen, decorated with the words _Weatherbee Publishing House_ into a plastic evidence bag when the tiny message jogged her memory. Jughead’s release party was next week and she had yet to invite her coworkers in order to fill his table.

 

“Hey Kev,” she piped up from behind her paper face mask, lifting her head from the bag she was labelling carefully. “You busy two Saturdays from now?”

 

Kevin looked up from the interior carpet he was examining with wide eyes. He dragged his mask down with a gloved hand. “I’m sorry Liz, are you inviting me to a social event?”

 

“Did someone say social event?” Cheryl chirped from the other side of the room.

 

“Actually, yeah.” Betty pulled her mask off and turned to face Cheryl and Reggie, who had seemingly forgotten about the body on their table for the moment. “Jughead is publishing his new novel, and he wanted me to invite you all to the release party. You can bring your spouses too,” she added, looking pointedly at the two married men in the room.

 

“Will there be alcohol and hot women there?” Cheryl asked, crossing her arms across the front of her lab coat.

 

“Yes to the alcohol, but no promises on the hot women.”

 

Cheryl pursed her lips and shrugged. “Fair enough. Count me in. I’m always down for a ritzy gathering.”

 

“Me too! Joaquin and I will be there,” Kevin said, smiling brightly, before covering his mouth and nose again with the mask and ducking back down to the carpet.

 

“I got to talk to the missus first, Doc,” Reggie spoke up, “She keeps the Mantle family schedule.”

 

Betty nodded and smiled at her three coworkers as they went back to the tasks at hand. In the last six months, she had not only gained a partner in Jughead and a new friend in Veronica (and by extension Archie), but she had also managed to become close with people she’d worked with for years. People who had, all along, been right in front of her. She just hadn’t allowed them to be part of her life.

 

She was glad that now they were.

 

\--

 

When Veronica had asked him where he wanted the event to take place, his first thought was Greenacre Park. It was where he and Betty met for the first time. It wasn’t the best first meeting by any means, but he wanted to redefine the space for them. He wanted it to hold a positive memory instead of the one where he walked away from her.

 

He knew—Veronica being a Lodge, after all—that she’d be able to pull some strings and make it happen. It was the one time he was thankful for her connections. She’d rented the whole place out, cleared away all of the state-issued steel chairs and cafe tables and replaced them with a few banquet-style tables, added elaborate centrepieces that didn’t distract from the park’s natural beauty, and installed a series of string lights instead of the harsh floodlights she’d originally suggested.

 

He’d asked that the night to be soft, elegant, romantic, just as Betty was. After all, he was doing this for her. He requested that no signage be displayed until after they’d arrived, as to not give away the surprise. His only other request was that it stayed small—only the people he invited and his team, along with the higher-ups required to be there. It was bad enough he let Veronica talk him into a fancy party, but he’d be damned if it turned into something completely unbearable.

 

She insisted on taking Betty dress shopping, too. She had the perfect one in mind, she’d said, from her own collection. Over the course of the last few months, the girls had gotten to know each other better, hanging out without him or Archie while they had their game nights. He liked that they got along. It was important that they did. But even if they hadn’t, it wouldn’t have mattered. It wouldn’t change the fact that he loved her.

 

\--

 

Betty was locking her office at the end of the day when her phone began buzzing incessantly in her pocket.

 

 **Veronica** : I have a dress I _need_ to put you in.

 **Veronica:** I designed it myself. You would look like an angel in it.

 **Veronica** : It’s absolutely perfect for the release party.

 **Veronica** : Come by my studio, asap!

 

Betty had to shake her head at the woman’s enthusiasm. After the quality time she’d spent with Veronica over the last few months she discovered that Jughead’s earlier description of her was not far off the mark. She was loyal, smart, innovative, incredibly high-strung, and wildly dramatic. Betty did not usually mesh with someone who possessed those qualities, yet the two of them became fast friends. It may have had something to do with another one of Veronica’s qualities—persistence.

 

When Betty arrived at the studio, she found that Veronica, true to form, had several dresses for her to try on. After just about every style, cut, and fabric she could imagine, in the end, the original choice won out. It was elegant and flattering, and the details glittered everytime Betty spun in the mirror.

 

“This is beautiful, V. You designed it?”

 

“I did. I found this fabric on my last trip to Italy to visit Daddy and I couldn’t resist.”

 

“I don’t think I can—”

 

“Nonsense, Betty, darling. This dress was practically made for you. I refuse to let you wear anything else. Besides, it’ll knock Jug off his feet. I guarantee it.”

 

\--

 

With the confirmation from Betty’s coworkers and their spouses, Archie, Veronica and his publishing team, they were set to have an intimate release party for thirty-five people. It was just enough of a crowd to make the event worth it, but not enough to give Jughead crippling anxiety. He was already nervous.

 

It was a big night with a lot of implications. He wasn’t sure he was ready to face them yet, but the day was upon him whether he was well-prepared or not. He had rehearsed his speech ad nauseam. He didn’t even want to give one, but it was kind of the entire point of the whole event.

 

He had to be there early to speak to a few members of the publishing house before the event officially started, so he told Betty to come with Archie and Veronica. It would be worth it to be surprised.

 

Kevin, his husband Joaquin, Reggie, his wife Valerie, and Cheryl arrived first, right on time, despite Cheryl’s complaints of wanting to be fashionably late.

 

“Thanks for coming, guys,” Jughead smiled. He meant it. He was happy they were there. Over the course of his relationship with Betty, he’d gotten to know her coworkers-turned-friends. It surprised him how well they took to him, if he was being honest.

 

He paced the floor as he watched Betty’s friends get settled into their table. He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket.

 

 **Veronica:** I can’t wait for you to see your girl.

 **Veronica:** Be there in two minutes. Come to the front gate to meet us.

 

He shoved his phone back in his left breast pocket and his hands began to shake. It was real. It was time for him to finally tell her what he’d been hiding for what seemed like forever, but in reality was a only few months. He took a few steadying breaths in an attempt to calm himself before approaching the gate.

 

He arrived in time to watch as Archie stepped out of the back seat of a town car first, offering his hand to his wife, dressed impeccably, as always. She motioned for him to come closer, and he placed his hand in front of the still-open door for Betty.

 

A small, perfectly-manicured hand grazed Archie’s and Jughead had to resist the urge to rush forward and help Betty out of the car himself. He couldn’t wait to see her, feel her against him to calm his racing heart and faster thoughts. A silver strappy shoe in his bottom periphery caught his eye and he waited, holding his breath as he saw the billowing, sheer, white-and-silver fabric at her ankle. As the rest of her body came into view and her head ducked out from the car, he felt the air ripped from his lungs.

 

She was an absolute vision. His eyes traveled up her body, the dress perfectly tailored to her curves, the neckline just low enough to be appropriate but still sexy. Her shoulders were bare and he was overcome with the desire to kiss the exposed skin, although he forced himself to ignore it at least for the time being. Hopefully, there would be time for that later.

 

He opened his mouth several times before Archie nudged him and dislodged the words from his throat.

 

“Can you give us a minute?” he asked Veronica and Archie, his eyes not leaving Betty’s as he spoke.

 

He heard the click of Veronica’s heels against the sidewalk as they faded behind him.

 

“Everytime I think you can’t get anymore beautiful, you go and blow me away all over again,” he whispered. He watched as she blushed, then took her hand to lead her down the sidewalk to an empty corner. The entire place had been cleared of its usual tables and decor for the event.

 

Jughead twirled her around before pulling her close to him and swaying while she was firmly in his embrace.

 

“Juggie, are you okay?”

 

He nodded slowly, letting the warm breeze fan his face and settle his nerves.

 

“It was a year ago, right here, that I had to make a decision,” he started. “I didn’t know what to do and I walked away from you. It took me some time, but I think it all worked itself out, right?” His smile was small. “I was so terrified to let myself fall in love, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything now. Not if it means I don’t have you by my side. All of this,” he gestured around them, “wouldn’t mean anything without you here.”

 

He looked to her, trying to gauge her expression. Her eyes were twinking under the small string lights. The soft tendrils of her hair fluttered in the wind. He carefully tucked a loose curl behind her ear.

 

“This isn’t a release party for Deirdre’s story. I lied. I stopped writing that after… all the dramatics with my dad.” He watched as her eyes widened then glared at him, more confused than she’d been when he asked her to join him tonight.

 

“Then what is it?”

 

“Something so much better than that,” he said, leaning in to place a gentle kiss to her nude painted lips. “Something by J. Jones the Third. Something I don’t need to hide behind a pseudonym to publish and something I want the entire universe to know _I_ wrote. Do you think you can wait, like, twenty minutes? You’ll hear all about it when I go up to speak, I promise.”

 

“You’re giving a speech?” she asked.

 

“That should tell you how important it is,” he winked.

 

He laced his fingers into hers and they walked to join the rest of the guests at the party. They stayed close to their friends, even while mingling with the other guests. Various employees of the publishing house came to speak with him and he was quick to introduce Betty to every single one of them.

 

He wanted to show her off. He was lucky. So goddamn lucky.

 

But while Betty was off grabbing a glass of wine, Jughead had to spend the better part of ten minutes in a conversation with someone whose name he couldn’t remember. He knew he _should_ , but he was so nervous any new information he received was in one ear and out the other. As subtle as he could, he peered over the woman’s shoulder in hopes of finding someone to come rescue him. He noticed Betty waiting for her drink at the bar, and shot her a small smile that she quickly returned.

 

Mercifully, his eyes connected with Archie’s and he was thanking God that they’d mastered the _help me, bro_ eye twitch as kids. Archie gave him a quick thumbs up before he and Veronica came to save the day.

 

“Mrs. Goldenstern, have you met my wife, Veronica?” Archie said, emphasizing her name as he guided her toward his wife, who immediately started gushing over her _to die for_ designer dress.

 

Jughead released the breath he’d inadvertently been holding and clapped his hand on Archie’s shoulder. He was thankful for the Andrews’ in that moment, as he was all the time.

 

“Thank you. I can’t even tell you what she was droning on about.”

 

“You doing okay? I haven’t seen you in this bad a shape since you were holding your college acceptance letter.”

 

He remembered that day so clearly, standing in the kitchen of Archie’s childhood home, Fred to his left, Archie to his right. _No matter what happens, we’re still here for you, Jug._ He heard Fred Andrews in his head more often than he’d admit outloud. He was sort of Jughead’s moral compass.

 

He turned to face Archie, his best friend, his brother. He knew that no matter what happened, he’d always have Archie’s unwavering support, as he always had.

 

“Thank you, Archie. For letting me borrow your wife these last few months. And I’m sorry we didn’t tell you before last week. We all know how hard it is for you to keep a secret. I just wanted this to be special for Betty. She deserves the world and I know this isn’t much, but it’s all I have to offer her.”

 

“Hey, woah. First off, you’re welcome. It actually helped me out a lot. I got a lot of work done while you guys were off doing whatever it is you were doing. And as for Betty,” he followed his best friend’s gaze toward the blonde in shining silver and white. “She’s going to love this. She loves _you_ , Jug. And I know that it still comes to kind of a shock to you, but you really do deserve this, too.”

 

Jughead pulled his best friend into a tight hug.

 

“And I’m sorry for how I acted in the beginning. I know I’m not one to tuck my tail, unless it’s for Veronica, because let’s be honest, there’s no winning with her sometimes, but I was wrong. You two are perfect and I’m sorry I doubted that when you clearly never did.”

 

 _If only you knew, Archie Andrews,_ he chuckled to himself. Of course he had his doubts, and those days were torturous. But he knew, once they returned home from Riverdale all those months ago, that he’d never have to doubt her, or their connection, ever again.

 

“Yo, Jones,” he heard a familiar booming, yet sultry voice. He turned and came face to face with his tiny, pink-haired editor. She appeared as if she wanted to say something more, but her eyes focused past Jughead on something else.

 

“Oh, hey Toni, nice to—”

 

She ignored him, instead choosing to dance around him and place her hand in none other than Cheryl Blossom’s outstretched one.

 

“Or not.” Jughead gaped at the two women and chuckled to himself.

 

“Toni, it is so nice to meet you. I’m Dr. Cheryl Blossom.”

 

Before he knew what hit him, Cheryl made off with Toni in the opposite direction.

 

\--

 

As Betty stood at the makeshift bar, erected under a covering of wooden beams in the approximate place where Jughead had purchased her a green tea many months ago, she couldn’t help but be a little uncomfortable by her surroundings. The park looked gorgeous, thanks to the team at Jughead’s publisher’s office—or more likely thanks to Veronica—but it still reminded her of that day.

 

She couldn’t forget the nerves she had that morning as she got ready to meet him. How she’d felt like a wind-up toy that had been cranked and cranked but not set loose. She could remember how everything slowed as she first spotted him, as she walked toward him. She remembered the words that tumbled out of her mouth, landing resolutely between them, creating a wall she thought would be impossible to break.

 

But most of all, being in the park again reminded her of how he looked walking away from her, shoulders slumped, head tucked to his chest. She could remember with vivid, terrifying clarity how everything inside her screamed as the best person stalked out of her life due to the worst decision she’d ever made.

 

She knew she wasn’t in that place anymore. Jughead had come back, had forgiven her, had assured her again and again of his love for her. He’d even _somehow condoned_ her actions, accepted her in all forms—Elizabeth, Liz, doctor.

 

Killer.

 

And then, _just Betty._

 

She knew all this, and yet just being back in Greenacre Park was enough to send her reeling back to those days where anguish was her primary emotion, loneliness her natural state of being.

 

“Miss, can I get you something to drink?” The bartender spoke up, cutting through Betty’s morose thoughts.

 

She nodded and cleared her throat. “A glass of Pinot Grigio, please. Any kind is fine.”

 

She needed to shake herself of the dismal feelings her recollections gave her, needed to stop dwelling on the past. Her decisions were done and made, and while she was still that person who’d made them, she knew she wouldn’t repeat her mistakes. She and Jughead had been able to form a strong camaraderie, a strong relationship built on their mutual trust. She felt safe with him, she knew him, and she was certain he felt the exact same way. She wouldn’t throw that away.

 

A quick glance in his direction solidified everything she was thinking. He was chatting with a man and woman she didn’t recognize, his expression content and thoughtful, but as soon as she laid her eyes on him, it was like he knew. His attention flew past the couple, across the grassy distance between them, and landed right on her. His lips quirked into the effortless smile she was getting used to seeing on his face.

 

Her entire body relaxed as joy situated itself in her chest.

 

“Here is your Pinot, miss. Enjoy.”

 

Betty tore her eyes from Jughead to lift her glass off the counter. She smiled at the bartender and put the white wine to her lips, then turned back to watch her date from afar. Archie and Veronica had approached him, and Veronica was now turning the woman’s attention to her. She watched as Archie and Jughead stepped away a few feet, and as Jughead affectionately slapped his best friend on the shoulder. It warmed her heart to see the two of them together.

 

The two men talked for a few minutes before sharing a hug, and then a pink-haired woman she recognized as Jughead’s editor appeared by their side. The woman said something to Jughead, but Betty watched as her attention was stolen by something else. She followed her gaze to Cheryl, standing a little bit aways, who was also seemingly captivated.

 

Betty chuckled against the rim of her glass and began making her way back toward the group.

 

She reached Jughead’s side, tucking her free arm through his, just in time to see his incredulous expression up close.

 

“Did I just play matchmaker by accident?” he whispered to her, a grin on his face, jutting his thumb in the direction of the two woman.

 

She giggled. “It didn’t look like you did anything, my dear.”

 

He mock scoffed. “I wrote a book, published it, and invited them both to this party. I deserve _some_ credit.”

 

Betty laughed as Archie, still standing close, shook his head in disbelief.

 

\--

 

Jughead was in awe of his surroundings. Veronica had really come through to transform the space that once held the utmost turmoil of his life into something beautiful. He was thankful for her, and he was never sure if he could ever actually repay her, but for now, his undying gratitude would suffice.

 

He was approached by Ethel, his long-time coworker and someone he even considered a friend. She placed her hand gently on his arm and smiled at him.

 

“Are you ready?”

 

“What if I say no?” he chuckled humorlessly. His stomach was in knots and his heart was beating so quickly and forcefully he was afraid it would crack his ribs.

 

“I’d tell you too bad, so you better gear up. This is how it’s going to go. Weatherbee is set to arrive shortly. He’ll probably mingle for about five minutes before he takes to the lectern. He’ll say some words, introduce you, then the floor is yours.”

 

“Weatherbee is actually coming? I didn’t think he’d actually show. I mean, I know his name is on the company, but I figured he’d be too busy for a small release like this.”

 

“Au contraire, Mr. Jones. _He_ was the reason it even got the green light. To say he loved it would be a grave understatement. He caught wind just after you submitted it and _insisted_ it get rushed through. Remember to thank him at some point tonight,” she said, winking.

 

What he was sure was supposed to be a pep talk did nothing but increased his already flared nerves and panic. He tapped at his pocket to ensure his notes were still there and took a second as Ethel walked away to think about everything that brought him to this place.

 

He’d survived his childhood, which was a feat in and of itself. He’d made his way through college, found his home in a metropolis he never expected to belong in. He found the love of his life, on the internet of all places. The smile that quirked on his lips was small, but it was real. Despite everything, despite the constant negativity in his life, he made it. But he knew it wouldn’t be anything or mean anything without the people who’d supported him in each chapter of his life. Archie and Veronica. Ethel and their coworkers. _Betty_.

 

Just as Ethel predicted, Mr. Weatherbee entered the party and mingled for exactly five minutes. He took to the front of the area and spoke genuinely. Jughead was having trouble concentrating on his exact words. Knowing that he’d be able to ask someone what exactly he said later, he tried to focus on his breathing so he didn’t throw up from anxiety. He felt Betty’s hand rub small, comforting circles on his thigh just as Weatherbee called his name.

 

He turned to her then, wide-eyed and with a shaky breath, and kissed her cheek. He loved that she always melted into him, even at the most innocent of touches. He slowly stood from his place at the table, nodding his head and sending a wink to Veronica before finally making his way up to shake Weatherbee’s hand.

 

Jughead cleared his throat nervously as he took his place behind the podium. He pulled a series of notecards from his inside breast pocket and tapped them carefully before flipping through them. Eventually, he looked up, his eyes immediately finding Betty’s. She smiled the smile that lit his soul on fire, and his anxiety began to dissipate.

 

“Hey. Hi. I’m, uh, I’m Jughead, but you guys already know that,” he blew a breath from the corner of his mouth before continuing. “This isn’t something I thought I’d ever have to do, so my apologies that I’m not a better public speaker. I should probably just stick to writing.”

 

That earned him a soft chuckle from the crowd and slight-but-loving shake of Betty’s head.

 

“Since I was a kid, I knew I wanted to write. I threw myself into mystery and crime novels and decided that was it. That was where I was going to carve my niche in the big bad writing world. And it worked, until it didn’t anymore.” His mouth opened again to speak, but he got distracted by his beautiful girlfriend in the romantic lighting. He laughed at himself.

 

“I never thought it was going to happen, but when it did, it hit me like a freight train. I fell in love. I was terrified then, just as I am now, but now I know it won’t be so unbearable because I won’t be alone anymore. I wrote this,” he said picking up the copy of his newly minted hardcover book, _Open Book_ , “because there was no way I couldn’t. The second we found each other, these words poured out of me and I was hard-pressed to let that inspiration go.”

 

He watched as Betty’s eyes grew wide and the pink on her cheeks darkened. Veronica leaned to her, whispering something in her ear and took Betty’s hand in hers. Jughead opened the cover of the book, passed the title page and landed on the dedication. He cleared his throat again and found Betty’s gaze. Her free hand was clutching her chest and eyes glassy with unshed tears.

 

“Taylor Jenkins Reid once wrote: ‘People think that intimacy is about sex. But intimacy is about truth. When you realize you can tell someone your truth, when you can show yourself to them, when you stand in front of them bare and their response is 'you're safe with me'- that's intimacy.’”

 

His voice was starting to shake with nerves. This was it. He hoped she liked it. He needed her to, but if he knew his girl as well as the thought he did, she’d love it, just as she loved him. Wholly. Completely. Unconditionally.

 

 _“To the woman who opened my eyes_ ,” his voice was softer, as if he were only talking to one person, because he was. He didn’t care that everyone else heard the quiver in his voice, saw the shake of his hands.

 

“Thank you for showing me what it is to love someone and be loved in return; thank for your ever present encouragement and support, even when I’m completely unworthy; thank you for showing me what real intimacy is and for making my world so much brighter because of it; thank you for taking this leap with me and showing me that not all risks are terrifying, even if they seem so at first; thank you for being the sunshine in a dark and scary world and showing me that I don’t have to face it alone anymore. This would… _I would_ be nothing without you. I love you.”

 

He closed the front cover of the book and tucked it under his arm. There was a quiet applause and glasses clinking as he made his way back to his table, back to Betty. She reached out her hand for him and he took it without hesitation. She plucked the book from under his arm and placed it gently on the table before she curled into his side and sliding her fingers around his neck, pulling him down for a kiss to rival the ages.

 

Public displays of affection weren’t unfamiliar to him, but this kiss, it certainly wasn’t for public consumption. He just couldn’t find it in himself to care, and clearly neither could Betty. The noise of the party around them fell away as he melted into her, pulling her closer into his embrace. For one shining moment, it was just them getting a redo of what should have been the year before.

 

But it was better that it was now. The year of their imperfect relationship finally came full circle. He had remembered once that Fred had said something about love being painful, that is was seeing the darkness in someone else and resisting the urge to run. Sure he had run, but he didn’t blame himself anymore. He found his way back to her. _Maybe I always will._

 

_\--_

 

The sound of Kevin whooping and hollering finally broke her from the kiss. Jughead rested his forehead against hers, and she could feel his heavy inhale and exhales.

 

She laced her fingers through his and squeezed his palm. Suddenly, she needed him away from this crowd. She led him through the archway of ivy, back to where he’d taken her earlier in the night. He was already doing such an amazing job of rewriting their history of this place, but now she wanted to add a chapter of her own.

 

“Juggie, that was…” She took a deep breath to calm herself so she could continue.

 

“I’m sorry if it was too much,” Jughead blurted, filling her pause. “I shouldn’t have surprised you or put you on the spot like that. I was going to make it simple, but then Veronica got in my ear about making a huge grand gesture and I guess I just--”

 

She leaned up and pressed her lips against his again, because she wanted to, because her emotions threatened to overflow, and because she wanted him to _be quiet for a moment._ She fully pulled away from him, out of his grasp and arm’s reach. His arms twitched at his sides.

 

She could feel the tears threatening to spill, feel her words beginning to lodge themselves in her throat. She rushed to get them out.

 

“Juggie, this,” she gestured around them carefully, “is so incredibly thoughtful.” She took another deep breath. “I know I haven’t been the easiest person to love. I know that we started rocky and we’ve been through enough to last a lifetime, but…”

 

He took a step closer to her and she breathed a sigh of relief when he reached his hand out to cup her cheek. She leaned into it, as she always did, and her eyes fluttered shut.

 

“But what, baby?”

 

“But I should be thanking you.”

 

The tears fell then, onto her powdered cheeks, clinging to her coated lashes.

 

“It’s you who proved to me that love exists, that I deserve it. I never thought I would.”

 

He wrapped her in his embrace again and kissed the crown of her head several times before leaning closer to her ear. “I’ve never met anyone who deserved it more, baby.”

 

\--

 

**_6 months later_ **

 

 **Jughead** : Hey, baby. I’m in this meeting with Toni for at least another hour. Would you be able to duck out of work early to get the condo keys from Midge?

 **Betty** : Sure. I’ll make Kevin do my last case. He’ll love it.

 **Betty** : It’s a good ol’ case of ASCVD.

 **Jughead** : I don’t know what that means.

 **Betty** : Arteriosclerotic cardiovascular disease.

 **Jughead** : …

 **Betty** : Heart disease, Jug.

 **Jughead** : Of course. Totally knew that.

 **Jughead** : But what is being the boss for, if not to make your inferiors do all the hard work?

 **Betty** : Exactly.

 **Betty** : I’m going to tell Kevin you said that.

  


**Jughead** : Finally finished with Toni. Holy shit, that woman can talk.

 **Jughead** : And I really didn’t need to know so many details about Cheryl.

 **Betty** : Got the keys! They have butterflies painted on them.

 **Betty** : Please don’t relay those details to me. I hear enough at work.

 **Jughead** : Fair. I’m so sorry.

 **Betty** : You mind if I go by the place without you? I want to take another look before we start moving our stuff in. Maybe do a solid cleaning.

 **Jughead** : By all means.

 **Jughead** : What’s for dinner tonight?

  


**Betty** : Juggie, I am so excited to move in here. I forgot how much I love it.

 **Betty** : I can picture our front hallway, the welcome mat, the cozy living room with all our books, the kitchen, you doing the dishes…

 **Jughead** : LOL.

 **Jughead** : What about the bedroom? What do you picture there?

 **Betty** : Sleeping, of course.

 **Betty** : Also, other various activities...

 **Jughead** : I’m so ready to live with you.

 **Betty** : <3

 **Betty** : There’s already mail for us!

 **Jughead** : Anything good?

 **Betty** : It’s a parcel with your name on it. Should I open it?

 **Jughead** : Uh, yes.

 **Jughead** : WHAT’S IN IT?!

 **Jughead** : The suspense is killing me!

  


**Betty** : Jug…

 **Betty** : It’s a dead snake.

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**Author's Note:**

> Don't worry, there is more to come! We hope you've enjoyed it so far. We hope you stick around to watch it unfold.  
> Love, Cyd & Alix. <3


End file.
